eiiry 


II;  li' 


evens 


WILLIAM  R.  PERKINS 
LIBRARY 

DUKE   UNIVERSITY 


PRESENTED   BY 

Robert  V,   New 
IN    MEMORY    OF 

his  mother,   Caroline  New 


tie 


Digitized  by  tine  Internet  Arciiive 
in  2010  witii  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


littp://www.arcliive.org/details/sixessevenOOIienr 


SIXES 
AND  SEVENS 


BY 

O.  HENRY 

Author  of  "The  Four  Million,"  "The  Voice  of  the 

City,"  "The  Trimmed  Lamp,"  "Strictly 

Business,"  "Whirligigs." 


Garden  City        New  York 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1911 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED,  INCLUDING  THAT  OF  TRANSLATION 
INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES,  INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 


COPYRIGHT,  igil,  BY  DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,  1003,  BY  STREET  &  SMITH 
COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY  ESS  ESS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1903,  1904,  BY  PRESS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY  S.  S.  MC  CLURE  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1904.  BY  MILLER  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  iSgg,  1903,  1904,  BY  FRANK  A.  MUNSEY  COMPANV 
COPYRIGHT,  1904,  I910,  BY  INTERNATIONAL  MAGAZINE  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT,  1908,  1910,  BY^THE  RIDGWAY  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 


^H^SS 


PAQE 

I,  The  Last  of  the  Troubadours       ...  3 

II.  The  Sleuths 21 

III.  Witches'  Loaves 32 

IV.  The  Pride  of  the  Cities 38 

V.  Holding  Up  a  Train 46 

VI.  Ulysses  and  the  Dogman 64 

V II  The  Champion  of  the  Weather     ...  74 

VIII.  Makes  the  Whole  World  Kin       ...  81 

IX.  At  Arms  with  Morpheus 88 

X.  The  Ghost  of  a  Chance 95 

XL  JiMMiE  Hayes  and  Muriel 108 

XII.  The  Door  of  Unrest 117 

XIII.  The  Duplicity  of  Hargraves    ....  133 

XIV.  Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse 154 

XV.  October  and  June 174 

XVI.  The  Church  with  an  Overshot  Wheel  .  178 

XVII.  New  York  by  Campfire  Light  ....  197 

XVIII.  The  Adventures  of  Shamrock  Jolnes     .  204 

XIX.  The  Lady  Higher  Up 214 

XX.  The  Greater  Coney 2t0 

V 


CONTENTS 

XXI.     Law  and  Order 227 

XXII.     Transformation  of  JVIartin  Burney  .     .  250 

XXIII.  The  Caliph  and  the  Cad 258 

XXIV.  The  Diamond  of  Kali 265 

XXV.     The  Day  We  Celebrate 275 


SIXES  AND  SEVENS 


THE  LAST  OF  THE  TROUBADOURS 

Inexorably  Sam  Oalloway  saddled  his  pony. 
He  was  going  away  from  the  Rancho  Altito  at  the 
end  of  a  three-months'  visit.  It  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  a  guest  should  put  up  with  wheat  coffee  and 
biscuits  yellow-streaked  with  saleratus  for  longer 
than  that.  Nick  Napoleon,  the  big  Negro  man  cook, 
had  never  been  able  to  make  good  biscuits;  Once 
before,  when  Nick  was  cooking  at  the  Willow  Ranch, 
Sam  had  been  forced  to  fly  from  his  cuisine,  after 
only  a  six- weeks'  sojourn. 

On  Sam's  face  was  an  expression  of  sorrow,  deepened 
with  regret  and  slightly  tempered  by  the  patient 
forgiveness  of  a  connoisseur  who  cannot  be  understood . 
But  very  firmly  and  inexorably  he  buckled  his  saddle- 
cinches,  looped  his  stake-rope  and  hung  it  to  his 
saddle-horn,  tied  his  shcker  and  coat  on  the  cantle, 
and  looped  his  quirt  on  his  right  wrist.  The  Merry- 
dews  (householders  of  the  Rancho  Altito),  men, 
women,  children,  and  servants,  vassals,  visitors,  em- 
ployes, dogs,  and  casual  callers  were  grouped  in  the 
"  gallery  "  of  the  ranch  house,  all  with  faces  set  to 

3 


4  Sixes  and  Sevens 

the  tune  of  melancholy  and  grief.  For,  as  the  coming 
of  Sam  Galloway  to  any  ranch,  camp,  or  cabin  between 
the  rivers  Frio  or  Bravo  del  Norte  aroused  joy,  so 
his  departure  caused  mourning  and  distress. 

And  then,  during  absolute  silence,  except  for  the 
bumping  of  a  hind  elbow  of  a  hound  dog  as  he  pursued 
a  wicked  flea,  Sam  tenderly  and  carefully  tied  his 
guitar  across  his  saddle  on  top  of  his  slicker  and  coat. 
The  guitar  was  in  a  green  duck  bag;  and  if  you  catch 
the  significance  of  it,  it  explains  Sam. 

Sam  Galloway  was  the  Last  of  the  Troubadours. 
Of  course  you  know  about  the  troubadours.  The 
encyclopsedia  says  they  flourished  between  the  eleventh 
and  the  tliirteenth  centuries.  What  they  flourished 
doesn't  seem  clear  —  you  may  be  pretty  sure  it  wasn't 
a  sword:  maybe  it  was  a  fiddlebow,  or  a  forkful  of 
spaghetti,  or  a  lady's  scarf.  Anyhow,  Sam  Galloway 
was  one  of  'em. 

Sam  put  on  a  martyred  expression  as  he  mounted 
his  pony.  But  the  expression  on  his  face  was  hilarious 
compared  with  the  one  on  his  pony's.  You  see,  a 
pony  gets  to  know  his  rider  mighty  well,  and  it  is 
not  unlikely  that  cow  ponies  in  pastures  and  at  hitching 
racks  had  often  guyed  Sam's  pony  for  being  ridden  by 
a  guitar  player  instead  of  by  a  rollicking,  cussing, 
all-wool  cowboy.  No  man  is  a  hero  to  his  saddle- 
horse.  And  even  an  escalator  in  a  department  store 
might  be  excused  for  tripping  up  a  troubadour. 


The  Last  of  the  Troubadours  5 

Oh,  I  know  I'm  one;  and  so  are  you.  You  remember 
the  stories  you  memorize  and  the  card  tricks  you 
study  and  that  httle  piece  on  the  piano  —  how  does 
it  go?  —  ti-tum-te-tum-ti-tum  —  those  little  Arabian 
Ten  Minute  Entertainments  that  you  furnish  when 
you  go  up  to  call  on  your  rich  Aunt  Jane,  You  should 
know  that  omnce  personoe  in  tres  partes  divisoe  sunt 
Namely:  Barons,  Troubadours,  and  Workers.  Barons 
have  no  inclination  to  read  such  folderol  as  this;  and 
Workers  have  no  time:  so  I  know  you  must  be  a 
Troubadour,  and  that  you  will  understand  Sam  Gallo- 
way. Whether  we  sing,  act,  dance,  write,  lecture, 
or  paint,  we  are  only  troubadours;  so  let  us  make 
the  worst  of  it. 

The  pony  with  the  Dante  Alighieri  face,  guided  by 
the  pressure  of  Sam's  knees,  bore  that  wandering 
minstrel  sixteen  miles  southeastward.  Nature  was 
in  her  most  benignant  mood.  League  after  league 
of  delicate,  sweet  flowerets  made  fragrant  the  gently 
undulating  prairie.  The  east  wind  tempered  the 
spring  warmth;  wool- white  clouds  flying  in  from 
the  Mexican  Gulf  hindered  the  direct  rays  of  the  April 
sun.  Sam  sang  songs  as  he  rode.  Under  his  pony's 
bridle  he  had  tucked  some  sprigs  of  chaparral  to  keep 
away  the  deer  flies.  Thus  crowned,  the  long-faced 
quadruped  looked  more  Dantesque  than  before,  and, 
judging  by  his  countenance,  seemed  to  think  of 
Beatrice. 


6  Sixes  and  Sevens 

Straight  as  topography  permitted,  Sam  rode  to 
the  sheep  ranch  of  old  man  Ellison.  A  visit  to  a  sheep 
ranch  seemed  to  him  desirable  just  then.  There  had 
been  too  many  people,  too  much  noise,  argument, 
competition,  confusion,  at  Rancho  Altito.  He  had 
never  conferred  upon  old  man  Ellison  the  favour  of 
sojourning  at  his  ranch;  but  he  knew  he  would  be 
welcome.  The  troubadour  is  his  own  passport  every- 
where. The  Workers  in  the  castle  let  down  the 
drawbridge  to  him,  and  the  Baron  sets  him  at  his  left 
hand  at  table  in  the  banquet  hall.  There  ladies  smile 
upon  him  and  applaud  his  songs  and  stories,  while 
the  Workers  bring  boars'  heads  and  jBagons.  If  the 
Baron  nods  once  or  t\\'ice  in  his  carved  oaken  chair, 
he  does  not  do  it  maliciously. 

Old  man  Ellison  welcomed  the  troubadour  flatter- 
ingly. He  had  often  heard  praises  of  Sam  Galloway 
from  other  ranchmen  who  had  been  complimented  by 
his  visits,  but  had  never  aspired  to  such  an  honour 
for  his  own  humble  barony.  I  say  barony  because 
old  man  Ellison  was  the  Last  of  the  Barons.  Of 
course,  Mr.  Bulwer-Lytton  lived  too  early  to  know 
him,  or  he  wouldn't  have  conferred  that  sobriquet 
upon  Warwick.  In  life  it  is  the  duty  and  the  function 
of  the  Baron  to  provide  work  for  the  Workers  and 
lodging  and  shelter  for  the  Troubadours. 

Old  man  Ellison  was  a  shrunken  old  man,  with  a 
short,  yellow-white  beard  and  a  face  lined  and  seamed 


The  Last  of  the  Troubadours  7 

by  past-and-gone  smiles.  His  ranch  was  a  little 
two-room  box  house  in  a  grove  of  hackberry  trees  in 
the  lonesomest  part  of  the  sheep  country.  His  house- 
hold consisted  of  a  Kiowa  Indian  man  cook,  four 
hounds,  a  pet  sheep,  and  a  half-tamed  coyote  chained 
to  a  fence-post.  He  owned  3,000  sheep,  which  he 
ran  on  two  sections  of  leased  land  and  many  thousands 
of  acres  neither  leased  nor  owned.  Three  or  four  times 
a  year  some  one  who  spoke  his  language  would  ride 
up  to  his  gate  and  exchange  a  few  bald  ideas  with 
him.  Those  were  red-letter  days  to  old  man  Ellison. 
Then  in  what  illuminated,  embossed,  and  gorgeously 
decorated  capitals  must  have  been  written  the  day 
on  which  a  troubadour  —  a  troubadour  who,  according 
to  the  encyclopaedia,  should  have  flourished  between 
the  eleventh  and  the  thirteenth  centuries  —  drew 
rein  at  the  gates  of  his  baronial  castle! 

Old  man  Ellison's  smiles  came  back  and  filled  his 
wrinkles  when  he  saw  Sam,  He  hurried  out  of  the 
house  in  his  shuflling,  limping  way  to  greet  him. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Ellison,"  called  Sam  cheerfully. 
"Thought  I'd  drop  over  and  see  you  a  while.  Notice 
you've  had  fine  rains  on  your  range.  They  ought 
to  make  good  grazing  for  your  spring  lambs." 

"Well,  well,  well,"  said  old  man  Ellison.  "I'm 
mighty  glad  to  see  you,  Sam.  I  never  thought  you'd 
take  the  trouble  to  ride  over  to  as  out-of-the-way  an 
old  ranch  as  this.    But  you're  mighty  welcome.     'Light. 


8  Sixes  and  Sevens 

I've  got  a  sack  of  new  oats  in  the  kitchen  —  shall  I 
bring  out  a  feed  for  your  hoss?" 

"Oats  for  him?"  said  Sam,  derisively.  "No,  sir-ee. 
He's  as  fat  as  a  pig  now  on  grass.  He  don't  get  rode 
enough  to  keep  him  in  condition.  I'll  just  turn  him 
in  the  horse  pasture  with  a  drag  rope  on  if  you  don't 
mind." 

I  am  positive  that  never  during  the  eleventh  and 
thirteenth  centuries  did  Baron,  Troubadour,  and 
Worker  amalgamate  as  harmoniously  as  their  parallels 
did  that  evening  at  old  man  Ellison's  sheep  ranch. 
The  Kiowa's  biscuits  were  light  and  tasty  and  his 
coffee  strong.  Ineradicable  hospitality  and  appre- 
ciation glowed  on  old  man  Ellison's  weather-tanned 
face.  As  for  the  troubadour,  he  said  to  himself  that 
he  had  stumbled  upon  pleasant  places  indeed.  A  well- 
cooked,  abundant  meal,  a  host  whom  his  lightest 
attempt  to  entertain  seemed  to  delight  far  beyond 
the  merits  of  the  exertion,  and  the  reposeful  atmos- 
phere that  his  sensitive  soul  at  that  time  craved  united 
to  confer  upon  him  a  satisfaction  and  luxurious  ease 
that  he  had  seldom  found  on  his  tours  of  the  ranches. 

After  the  delectable  supper,  Sam  untied  the  green 
duck  bag  and  took  out  his  guitar.  Not  by  way  of  pay- 
ment, mind  you  —  neither  Sam  Gallov/ay  nor  any  other 
of  the  true  troubadours  are  lineal  descendants  of  the 
late  Tommy  Tucker.  You  have  read  of  Tommy 
Tucker  in  the  works  of  the  esteemed  but  often  ob- 


The  Last  of  the  Troubadours  9 

scure  Mother  Goose.  Tommy  Tucker  sang  for  his 
supper.  No  true  troubadour  would  do  that.  He 
would  have  his  supper,  and  then  sing  for  Art's  sake. 

Sam  Galloway's  repertoire  comprised  about  fifty 
funny  stories  and  between  thirty  and  forty  songs. 
He  by  no  means  stopped  there.  He  could  talk  through 
twenty  cigarettes  on  any  topic  that  you  brought  up. 
And  he  never  sat  up  when  he  could  lie  down;  and 
never  stood  when  he  could  sit.  I  am  strongly  disposed 
to  linger  with  him,  for  I  am  drawing  a  portrait  as 
well  as  a  blunt  pencil  and  a  tattered  thesaurus  will 
allow. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  him:  he  was  small  and 
tough  and  inactive  beyond  the  power  of  imagination 
to  conceive.  He  wore  an  ultramarine-blue  woollen 
shirt  laced  down  the  front  with  a  pearl-gray,  exag- 
gerated sort  of  shoestring,  indestructible  brown  duck 
clothes,  inevitable  high-heeled  boots  with  Mexican 
spurs,  and  a  Mexican  straw  sombrero. 

That  evening  Sam  and  old  man  Ellison  dragged 
their  chairs  out  under  the  hackberry  trees.  They 
lighted  cigarettes;  and  the  troubadour  gaily  touched 
his  guitar.  Many  of  the  songs  he  sang  were  the 
weird,  melancholy,  minor-keyed  canciones  that  he 
had  learned  from  the  Mexican  sheep  herders  and 
vaqueros.  One,  in  particular,  charmed  and  soothed 
the  soul  of  the  lonely  baron.  It  was  a  favourite  song 
of     the    sheep    herders,    beginning:      '^Huile,     huile. 


10  Sixes  and  Sevens 

palomita,''  which  being  translated  means,  "Fly,  fly, 
little  dove."  Sam  sang  it  for  old  man  Ellison  many 
times  that  evening. 

The  troubadour  stayed  on  at  the  old  man's  ranch. 
There  was  peace  and  quiet  and  appreciation  there, 
such  as  he  had  not  found  in  the  noisy  camps  of  the 
cattle  kings.  No  audience  in  the  world  could  have 
crowned  the  work  of  poet,  musician,  or  artist  with 
more  worshipful  and  unflagging  approval  than  that 
bestowed  upon  his  efforts  by  old  man  Ellison.  No 
visit  by  a  royal  personage  to  a  humble  woodchopper 
or  peasant  could  have  been  received  with  more  flatter- 
ing thankfulness  and  joy. 

On  a  cool,  canvas-covered  cot  in  the  shade  of  the 
hackberry  trees  Sam  Galloway  passed  the  greater 
part  of  his  time.  There  he  rolled  his  brown  paper 
cigarettes,  read  such  tedious  literature  as  the  ranch 
afforded,  and  added  to  his  repertoire  of  improvisations 
that  he  played  so  expertly  on  his  guitar.  To  him,  as 
a  slave  ministering  to  a  great  lord,  the  Kiowa  brought 
cool  water  from  the  red  jar  hanging  under  the  brush 
shelter,  and  food  when  he  called  for  it.  The  prairie 
zephyrs  fanned  him  mildly;  mocking-birds  at  morn 
and  eve  competed  with  but  scarce  equalled  the  sweet 
melodies  of  his  lyre;  a  perfumed  stillness  seemed  to 
fill  all  his  world.  While  old  man  Ellison  was  pottering 
among  his  flocks  of  sheep  on  his  mile-an-hour  pony, 
and  while  the  Kiowa  took  his  siesta  in  the  burning 


The  Last  of  the  Troubadours  11 

sunshine  at  the  end  of  the  kitchen,  Sam  would  lie 
on  his  cot  thinking  what  a  happy  world  he  lived  in, 
and  how  kind  it  is  to  the  ones  whose  mission  in  life 
it  is  to  give  entertainment  and  pleasure.  Here 
he  had  food  and  lodging  as  good  as  he  had  ever  longed 
for;  absolute  immunity  from  care  or  exertion  or 
strife;  an  endless  welcome,  and  a  host  whose  delight 
at  the  sixteenth  repetition  of  a  song  or  a  story  was  as 
keen  as  at  its  initial  giving.  Was  there  ever  a  trouba- 
dour of  old  who  struck  upon  as  royal  a  castle  in  his 
wanderings?  While  he  lay  thus,  meditating  upon 
his  blessings,  little  brown  cottontails  would  shyly 
frolic  through  the  yard;  a  covey  of  white-topknotted 
blue  quail  would  run  past,  in  single  file,  twenty  yards 
away;  a  paisano  bird,  out  hunting  for  tarantulas, 
would  hop  upon  the  fence  and  salute  him  with  sweeping 
flourishes  of  its  long  tail.  In  the  eighty-acre  horse 
pasture  the  pony  with  the  Dantesque  face  grew  fat 
and  almost  smiling.  The  troubadour  was  at  the  end 
of  his  wanderings. 

Old  man  Ellison  was  his  own  vaciero.  That  means 
that  he  supplied  his  sheep  camps  with  wood,  water, 
and  rations  by  his  own  labours  instead  of  hiring  a 
vaciero.     On  small  ranches  it  is  often  done. 

One  morning  he  started  for  the  camp  of  Incarnacion 
Felipe  de  la  Cruz  y  Monte  Piedras  (one  of  his  sheep 
herders)  with  the  week's  usual  rations  of  brown  beans, 
coflfee,  meal,  and  sugar.     Two  miles  away  on  the  trail 


12  Sixes  and  Sevens 

from  old  Fort  Ewing  he  met,  face  to  face,  a  terribl* 
being  called  King  James,  mounted  on  a  fiery,  prancing, 
Kentucky-bred  horse. 

King  James's  real  name  was  James  King;  but 
people  reversed  it  because  it  seemed  to  fit  him  better, 
and  also  because  it  seemed  to  please  his  majesty. 
King  James  was  the  biggest  cattleman  betv>'een  the 
Alamo  plaza  in  San  Antone  and  Bill  Hopper's  saloon 
in  Brownsville.  Also  he  was  the  loudest  and  most 
offensive  bully  and  braggart  and  bad  man  in  southwest 
Texas.  And  he  always  made  good  whenever  he 
bragged;  and  the  more  noise  he  made  the  more  dan- 
gerous he  was.  In  the  story  papers  it  is  always  the 
quiet,  mild-mannered  man  with  light  blue  eyes  and 
a  low  voice  who  turns  out  to  be  really  dangerous; 
but  in  real  life  and  in  this  story  such  is  not  the  case. 
Give  me  my  choice  between  assaulting  a  large,  loud- 
mouthed rough-houser  and  an  inoffensive  stranger 
with  blue  eyes  sitting  quietly  in  a  corner,  and  you  will 
see  something  doing  in  the  corner  every  time. 

King  James,  as  I  intended  to  say  earlier,  was  a 
fierce,  two-hundred-pound,  sunburned,  blond  man, 
as  pink  as  an  October  strawberry,  and  with  two  hori- 
zontal slits  under  shaggy  red  eyebrows  for  eyes.  On 
that  day  he  wore  a  flannel  shirt  that  was  tan-coloured, 
with  the  exception  of  certain  large  areas  which  were 
darkened  by  transudations  due  to  the  summer  sun. 
There  seemed  to  be  other  clothing  and  garnishings 


The  Last  of  the  Troubadours  13 

about  him,  such  as  brown  duck  trousers  stuffed  into 
immense  boots,  and  red  handkerchiefs  and  revolvers; 
and  a  shotgun  laid  across  his  saddle  and  a  leather 
belt  with  millions  of  cartridges  shining  in  it  —  but 
your  mind  skidded  off  such  accessories;  what  held 
your  gaze  was  just  the  two  little  horizontal  slits  that 
he  used  for  eyes. 

This  was  the  man  that  old  man  Ellison  met  on  the 
trail;  and  when  you  count  up  in  the  baron's  favour 
that  he  was  sixty-five  and  weighed  ninety-eight 
pounds  and  had  heard  of  King  James's  record  and 
that  he  (the  baron)  had  a  hankering  for  the  vita 
simplex  and  had  no  gun  with  him  and  wouldn't  have 
used  it  if  he  had,  you  can't  censure  him  if  I  tell  you 
that  the  smiles  with  which  the  troubadour  had  filled 
his  wrinkles  went  out  of  them  and  left  them  plain 
wrinkles  again.  But  he  was  not  the  kind  of  baron 
that  flies  from  danger.  He  reined  in  the  mile-an-hour 
pony  (no  diflScult  feat),  and  saluted  the  formidable 
monarch. 

King  James  expressed  himself  with  royal  directness. 

"You're  that  old  snoozer  that's  running  sheep  on 
this  range,  ain't  you?  "  said  he.  "  What  right  have  you 
got  to  do  it?     Do  you  own  any  land,  or  lease  any?" 

"I  have  two  sections  leased  from  the  state,"  said 
old  man  Ellison,  mildly. 

"Not  by  no  means  you  haven't,"  said  King  James. 
"Your  lease  expired  yesterday;  and  I  had  a  man  at 


14  Sixes  and  Sevens 

the  land  oflSce  on  the  mmute  to  take  it  up.  You 
don't  control  a  foot  of  grass  in  Texas,  You  sheep 
men  have  got  to  git.  Your  time's  up.  It's  a  cattle 
country,  and  there  ain't  any  room  in  it  for  snoozers. 
This  range  you've  got  your  sheep  on  is  mine.  I'm 
putting  up  a  wire  fence,  forty  by  sixty  miles;  and  if 
there's  a  sheep  inside  of  it  when  it's  done  it'll  be  a 
dead  one.  I'll  give  you  a  week  to  move  yours  away. 
If  they  ain't  gone  by  then,  I'll  send  six  men  over  here 
with  Winchesters  to  make  mutton  out  of  the  whole 
lot.  And  if  I  find  you  here  at  the  same  time  this  is 
what  you'll  get." 

King  James  patted  the  breech  of  his  shot-gun 
warningly. 

Old  man  Ellison  rode  on  to  the  camp  of  Incarnaci6n. 
He  sighed  many  times,  and  the  wrinkles  in  his  face 
grew  deeper.  Rumours  that  the  old  order  was  about 
to  change  had  reached  him  before.  The  end  of  Free 
Grass  was  in  sight.  Other  troubles,  too,  had  been 
accumulating  upon  his  shoulders.  His  flocks  were 
decreasing  instead  of  growing;  the  price  of  wool 
was  declining  at  every  clip;  even  Bradshaw,  the 
storekeeper  at  Frio  City,  at  whose  store  he  bought 
his  ranch  supplies,  was  dunning  him  for  his  last  six 
months'  bill  and  threatening  to  cut  him  off.  And 
so  this  last  greatest  calamity  suddenly  dealt  out  to 
him  by  the  terrible  King  James  was  a  crusher. 

When  the  old  man  got  back  to  the  ranch  at  sunset 


The  Last  of  the  Troubadours  15 

he  found  Sam  Galloway  lying  on  his  cot,  propped 
against  a  roll  of  blankets  and  wool  sacks,  fingering 
his  guitar. 

"Hello,  Uncle  Ben,"  the  troubadour  called,  cheer- 
fully. "You  rolled  in  early  this  evening.  I  been 
trying  a  new  twist  on  the  Spanish  Fandango  to-day. 
I  just  about  got  it.     Here's  how  she  goes  —  listen." 

"That's  fine,  that's  mighty  fine,"  said  old  man 
Ellison,  sitting  on  the  kitchen  step  and  rubbing  his 
white,  Scotch-terrier  whiskers.  "I  reckon  you've 
got  all  the  musicians  beat  east  and  west,  Sam,  as  far 
as  the  roads  are  cut  out." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Sam,  reflectively.  "But 
I  certainly  do  get  there  on  variations.  I  guess  I 
can  handle  anything  in  five  flats  about  as  well  as  any 
of  'em.  But  you  look  kind  of  fagged  out.  Uncle 
Ben  —  ain't  you  feeling  right  well  this  evening.'' " 

"Little  tired;  that's  all,  Sam.  If  you  ain't  played 
yourself  out,  let's  have  that  Mexican  piece  that 
starts  off  with:  'Huile,  huile,  palomita.^  It  seems 
that  that  song  always  kind  of  soothes  and  comforts 
me  after  I've  been  riding  far  or  anything  bothers  me." 

"Why,  seguramente,  senor,"  said  Sam.  "I'll  hit 
her  up  for  you  as  often  as  you  like.  And  before  I 
forget  about  it,  Uncle  Ben,  you  want  to  jerk  Bradshaw 
up  about  them  last  hams  he  sent  us.  They're  just 
a  little  bit  strong." 

A  man  sixty-five  years  old,  living  on  a  sheep  ranch 


16  Six^es  and  Sevens 

and  beset  by  a  complication  of  disasters,  cannot 
successfully  and  continuously  dissemble.  Moreover, 
a  troubadour  has  eyes  quick  to  see  unhappiness  in 
others  around  him  —  because  it  disturbs  his  own 
ease.  So,  on  the  next  day,  Sara  again  questioned  the 
old  man  about  his  air  of  sadness  and  abstraction. 
Then  old  man  Ellison  told  him  the  story  of  King 
James's  threats  and  orders  and  that  pale  melancholy 
and  red  ruin  appeared  to  have  marked  him  for  their 
own.  The  troubadour  took  the  news  thoughtfully. 
He  had  heard  much  about  King  James. 

On  the  third  day  of  the  seven  days  of  grace  allowed 
him  by  the  autocrat  of  the  range,  old  man  Ellison 
drove  his  buckboard  to  Frio  City  to  fetch  some  neces- 
sary supplies  for  the  ranch.  Bradshaw  was  hard 
but  not  implacable.  He  divided  the  old  man's  order 
by  two,  and  let  him  have  a  little  more  time.  One 
article  secured  was  a  new,  iSne  ham  for  the  pleasure 
of  the  troubadour. 

Five  miles  out  of  Frio  City  on  his  way  home  the 
old  man  met  King  James  riding  into  town.  His 
majesty  could  never  look  anything  but  fierce  and 
menacing,  but  to-day  his  slits  of  eyes  appeared  to  be 
a  little  wider  than  they  usually  were. 

"  Good  day,"  said  the  king,  gruffly.  "  I've  been  want- 
ing to  see  you.  I  hear  it  said  by  a  cowman  from  Sandy 
yesterday  that  you  was  from  Jackson  County,  Mississ- 
ippi, originally.     I  want  to  know  if  that's  a  fact " 


The  Last  of  the  Troubadours  17 

"Born  there,"  said  old  man  Ellison,  "and  raised 
there  till  I  was  twenty-one." 

"This  man  says,"  went  on  King  James,  "that  lie 
thinks  you  was  related  to  the  Jackson  County  Reeveses. 
Was  he  right?" 

"Aunt  Caroline  Reeves,"  said  the  old  man,  "was 
my  half-sister." 

"She  was  my  aunt,"  said  King  James.  "I  run 
away  from  home  when  I  was  sixteen.  Now,  let's 
re-talk  over  some  things  that  we  discussed  a  few  days 
ago.  They  call  me  a  bad  man;  and  they're  only 
half  right.  There's  plenty  of  room  in  my  pasture 
for  your  bunch  of  sheep  and  their  increase  for  a  long 
time  to  come.  Aunt  Caroline  used  to  cut  out  sheep 
in  cake  dough  and  bake  'em  for  me.  You  keep  your 
sheep  where  they  are,  and  use  all  the  range  you  want. 
How's  your  finances.''" 

The  old  man  related  his  woes  in  detail,  dignifiedly, 
with  restraint  and  candour. 

"She  used  to  smuggle  extra  grub  into  my  school 
basket  —  I'm  speaking  of  Aunt  Caroline,"  said  King 
James.  "I'm  going  over  to  Frio  City  to-day,  and 
I'll  ride  back  by  your  ranch  to-morrow.  I'll  draw 
$2,000  out  of  the  bank  there  and  bring  it  over  to  you; 
and  I'll  tell  Bradshaw  to  let  you  have  everything  you 
want  on  credit.  You  are  bound  to  have  heard  the 
old  saying  at  home,  that  the  Jackson  County  Reeveses 
and  Kings  would   stick  closer  by  each  other  than 


18  Sixes  and  Sevens 

iihestnut  burrs.  Well,  I'm  a  King  yet  whenever  I 
run  across  a  Reeves.  So  you  look  out  for  me  along 
about  sundown  to-morrow,  and  don't  worry  about 
nothing.  Shouldn't  wonder  if  the  dry  spell  don't 
kill  out  the  young  grass." 

Old  man  Ellison  drove  happily  ranchward.  Once 
more  the  smiles  filled  out  his  wrinkles.  Very  suddenly, 
by  the  magic  of  kinship  and  the  good  that  lies  some- 
where in  all  hearts,  his  troubles  had  been  removed. 

On  reaching  the  ranch  he  found  that  Sam  Galloway 
was  not  there.  His  guitar  hung  by  its  buckskin  string 
to  a  hackberry  limb,  moaning  as  the  gulf  breeze  blew 
across  its  masterless  strings. 

The  Kiowa  endeavoured  to  explain. 

"Sam,  he  catch  pony,"  said  he,  "and  say  he  ride 
to  Frio  City.  What  for  no  can  damn  sabe.  Say 
he  come  back  to-night.     Maybe  so.     That  all." 

As  the  first  stars  came  out  the  troubadour 
rode  back  to  his  haven.  He  pastured  his  pony 
and  went  into  the  house,  his  spurs  jingling  mar- 
tially. 

Old  man  Ellison  sat  at  the  kitchen  table,  having 
a  tin  cup  of  before-supper  coffee.  He  looked  contented 
and  pleased. 

"Hello,  Sam,"  said  he,  "I'm  darned  glad  to  see  ye 
back.  I  don't  know  how  I  managed  to  get  along  on 
this  ranch,  anyhow,  before  ye  dropped  in  to  cheer 
things   up.     I'll   bet  ye've  been  skylarking  around 


The  Last  of  the  Troubadours  19 

with  some  of  them  Frio  City  gals,  now,  that's  kept 
ye  so  late." 

And  then  old  man  Ellison  took  another  look  at 
Sam's  face  and  saw  that  the  minstrel  had  changed 
to  the  man  of  action. 

And  while  Sam  is  unbuckling  from  his  waist  old 
man  Ellison's  six-shooter,  that  the  latter  had  left 
behind  when  he  drove  to  town,  we  may  well  pause 
to  remark  that  anywhere  and  whenever  a  troubadour 
lays  down  the  guitar  and  takes  up  the  sword  trouble 
is  sure  to  follow.  It  is  not  the  expert  thrust  of  Athos 
nor  the  cold  skill  of  Aramis  nor  the  iron  wrist  of 
Porthos  that  we  have  to  fear  —  it  is  the  Gascon's 
fury  —  the  wild  and  unacademic  attack  of  the  trouba- 
dour —  the  sword  of  D'Artagnan. 

"I  done  it,"  said  Sam.  "I  went  over  to  Frio  City 
to  do  it.  I  couldn't  let  him  put  the  skibunk  on  you. 
Uncle  Ben.  I  met  him  in  Summers's  saloon.  I 
knowed  what  to  do.  I  said  a  few  things  to  him  that 
nobody  else  heard.  He  reached  for  his  gun  first  — 
half  a  dozen  fellows  saw  him  do  it  —  but  I  got  mine 
unlimbered  first.  Three  doses  I  gave  him  —  right 
around  the  lungs,  and  a  saucer  could  have  covered 
up  all  of  'em.     He  won't  bother  you  no  more." 

"This  —  is  —  King  —  James  —  you  speak  —  of .'' " 
asked  old  man  Ellison,  while  he  sipped  his  coflPee. 

"You  bet  it  was.  And  they  took  me  before  the 
county  judge;  and  the  witnesses  what  saw  him  draw 


20  Sixes  and  Sevens 

his  gun  first  was  all  there.  Well,  of  course,  they  put 
me  under  $300  bond  to  appear  before  the  court,  but 
there  was  four  or  five  boys  on  the  spot  ready  to  sign 
the  bail.  He  won't  bother  you  no  more.  Uncle  Ben. 
You  ought  to  have  seen  how  close  them  bullet  holes 
was  together.  I  reckon  playing  a  guitar  as  much  as 
I  do  must  kind  of  limber  a  fellow's  trigger  finger  up  a 
little,  don't  you  think.  Uncle  Ben.'" 

Then  there  was  a  little  silence  in  the  castle  except 
for  the  spluttering  of  a  venison  steak  that  the  Kiowa 
was  cooking. 

"Sam,"  said  old  man  Ellison,  stroking  his  white 
whiskers  with  a  tremulous  hand,  "would  you  mind 
getting  the  guitar  and  playing  that  'Huile,  huile, 
palomita'  piece  once  or  twice?  It  always  seems  to 
be  kind  of  soothing  and  comforting  when  a  man's 
tired  and  fagged  out." 

There  is  no  more  to  be  said,  except  that  the  title 
of  the  story  is  wrong.  It  should  have  been  called 
"The  Last  of  the  Barons."  There  never  will  be  an 
end  to  the  troubadours;  and  now  and  then  it  does 
seem  that  the  jingle  of  their  guitars  will  drown  the 
sound  of  the  muffled  blows  of  the  pickaxes  and  trip 
hammers  of  all  the  Workers  in  the  world. 


II 

THE  SLEUTHS 

In  the  Big  City  a  man  will  disappear  with  the 
suddenness  and  completeness  of  the  flame  of  a  candle 
that  is  blown  out.  All  the  agencies  of  inquisition  — 
the  hounds  of  the  trail,  the  sleuths  of  the  city's  laby- 
rinths, the  closet  detectives  of  theory  and  induction 
—  will  be  invoked  to  the  search.  Most  often  the 
man's  face  will  be  seen  no  more.  Sometimes  he 
will  reappear  in  Sheboygan  or  in  the  wilds  of  Terre 
Haute,  calling  himself  one  of  the  synonyms  of  "Smith," 
and  without  memory  of  events  up  to  a  certain  time, 
including  his  grocer's  bill.  Sometimes  it  will  be 
found,  after  dragging  the  rivers,  and  polling  the  res- 
taurants to  see  if  he  may  be  waiting  for  a  well-done 
sirloin,  that  he  has  moved  next  door. 

This  snuffing  out  of  a  human  being  like  the  erasure 
of  a  chalk  man  from  a  blackboard  is  one  of  the  most 
impressive  themes  in  dramaturgy. 

The  case  of  Mary  Snyder,  in  point,  should  not  be 
without  interest. 

A  man  of  middle  age,  of  the  name  of  Meeks,  came 
from  the  West  to  New  York  to  find  his  sister,  Mrs. 

21 


22  Sixes  and  Sevens 

Mary  Snyder,  a  widow,  aged  fifty-two,  who  had  been 
livmg  for  a  year  in  a  tenement  house  in  a  crowded 
neighbourhood , 

At  her  address  he  was  told  that  Mary  Snyder  had 
moved  away  longer  than  a  month  before.  No  one 
could  tell  him  her  new  address. 

On  coming  out  Mr.  Meeks  addressed  a  policeman 
who  was  standing  on  the  corner,  and  explained  his 
dilemma. 

"My  sister  is  very  poor,"  he  said,  "and  I  am 
anxious  to  find  her.  I  have  recently  made  quite  a 
lot  of  money  in  a  lead  mine,  and  I  want  her  to  share  my 
prosperity.  There  is  no  use  in  advertising  her,  be- 
cause she  cannot  read." 

The  policeman  pulled  his  moustache  and  looked 
so  thoughtful  and  mighty  that  Meeks  could  almost 
feel  the  joyful  tears  of  his  sister  Mary  dropping  upon 
his  bright  blue  tie. 

"You  go  down  in  the  Canal  Street  neighbourhood," 
said  the  policeman,  "and  get  a  job  drivin'  the  biggest 
dray  you  can  find.  There's  old  women  always  gettin' 
knocked  over  by  drays  down  there.  You  might  see 
'er  among  'em.  If  you  don't  want  to  do  that  you 
better  go  'round  to  headquarters  and  get  'em  to  put 
a  fly  cop  onto  the  dame." 

At  police  headquarters,  Meeks  received  ready 
assistance.  A  general  alarm  was  sent  out,  and  copies 
of  a  photograph  of  Mary  Snyder  that  her  brother  had 


The  Sleuths  23 

were  distributed  among  the  stations.  In  Mulberry 
Street  the  chief  assigned  Detective  Mullins  to  the  case. 

The  detective  took  Meeks  aside  and  said : 

"This  is  not  a  very  difficult  case  to  unravel.  Shave 
off  your  whiskers,  fill  your  pockets  with  good  cigars, 
and  meet  me  in  the  cafe  of  the  Waldorf  at  three 
o'clock  this  afternoon." 

Meeks  obeyed.  He  found  Mullins  there.  They 
had  a  bottle  of  wine,  while  the  detective  asked  ques- 
tions concerning  the  missing  woman. 

"Now,"  said  Mullins,  "New  York  is  a  big  city, 
but  we've  got  the  detective  business  systematized. 
There  are  two  ways  we  can  go  about  finding  your 
sister.  We  will  try  one  of  'em  first.  You  say  she's 
fifty-two.?" 

"A  little  past,"  said  Meeks. 

The  detective  conducted  the  Westerner  to  a  branch 
advertising  office  of  one  of  the  largest  dailies.  There 
he  wrote  the  following  "ad"  and  submitted  it  to 
Meeks: 

"Wanted,  at  once  —  one  hundred  attractive  chorus 
girls  for  a  new  musical  comedy.  Apply  all  day  at 
No. Broadway." 

Meeks  was  indignant. 

"My  sister,"  said  he,  "is  a  poor,  hard-working, 
elderly  woman.  I  do  not  see  what  aid  an  advertise- 
ment of  this  kind  would  be  toward  finding  her." 

*'A11    right,"    said    the    detective.     "I    guess    you 


24  Sixes  and  Sevens 

don't  know  New  York.  But  if  you've  got  a  grouch 
against  this  scheme  we'll  try  the  other  one.  It's 
a  sure  thing.     But  it'll  cost  you  more." 

"Never  mind  the  expense,"  said  Meeks;  "we'll 
try  it." 

The  sleuth  led  him  back  to  the  Waldorf.  "Engage 
a  couple  of  bedrooms  and  a  parlour,"  he  advised, 
"and  let's  go  up." 

This  was  done,  and  the  two  were  shown  to  a  superb 
suite  on  the  fourth  floor.  Meeks  looked  puzzled. 
The  detective  sank  into  a  velvet  armchair,  and  pulled 
out  his  cigar  case. 

"I  forgot  to  suggest,  old  man,"  he  said,  "that  you 
should  have  taken  the  rooms  by  the  month.  They 
wouldn't  have  stuck  you  so  much  for  'em." 

"By  the  month!"  exclaimed  Meeks.  "What  do 
you  mean?" 

"Oh,  it'll  take  time  to  work  the  game  this  way. 
I  told  you  it  would  cost  you  more.  We'll  have  to 
wait  till  spring.  There'll  be  a  new  city  directory  out 
then.  Very  likely  your  sister's  name  and  address 
will  be  in  it." 

Meeks  rid  himself  of  the  city  detective  at  once. 
On  the  next  day  some  one  advised  him  to  consult 
Shamrock  Jolnes,  New  York's  famous  private  detec- 
tive, who  demanded  fabulous  fees,  but  performed 
miracles  in  the  way  of  solving  mysteries  and  crimes. 

After  waiting  for  two  hours  in  the  anteroom  of 


The  Sleuths  25 

the  great  detective's  apartment,  Meeks  was  shown  into 
his  presence.  Jolnes  sat  in  a  purple  dressing-gown  at 
an  inlaid  ivory  chess  table,  with  a  magazine  before  him, 
trying  to  solve  the  mystery  of  "They."  The  famous 
sleuth's  thin,  intellectual  face,  piercing  eyes,  and  rate 
per  word  are  too  well  known  to  need  description. 

Meeks  set  forth  his  errand.  "  My  fee,  if  successful, 
will  be  $500,"  said  Shamrock  Jolnes. 

Meeks  bowed  his  agreement  to  the  price. 

"I  will  undertake  your  case,  Mr.  Meeks,"  said 
Jolnes,  finally.  "The  disappearance  of  people  in  this 
city  has  always  been  an  interesting  problem  to  me.  I 
remember  a  case  that  I  brought  to  a  successful  outcome 
a  year  ago.  A  family  bearing  the  name  of  Clark  dis- 
appeared suddenly  from  a  small  flat  in  which  they 
were  living.  I  watched  the  flat  building  for  two 
months  for  a  clue.  One  day  it  struck  me  that  a  certain 
milkman  and  a  grocer's  boy  always  walked  backward 
when  they  carried  their  wares  upstairs.  Following 
out  by  induction  the  idea  that  this  observation  gave 
me,  I  at  once  located  the  missing  family.  They  had 
moved  into  the  flat  across  the  hall  and  changed  their 
name  to  Kralc." 

Shamrock  Jolnes  and  his  client  went  to  the  tene- 
ment house  where  Mary  Snyder  had  lived,  and  the 
detective  demanded  to  be  shown  the  room  in  which 
she  had  lived.  It  had  been  occupied  by  no  tenant 
since  her  disappearance. 


26  Sixes  and  Sevens 

The  room  was  small,  dingy,  and  poorly  furnished. 
Meeks  seated  himself  dejectedly  on  a  broken  chair, 
while  the  great  detective  searched  the  walls  and  floor 
and  the  few  sticks  of  old,  rickety  furniture  for  a  clue. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Jolnes  had  collected 
a  few  seemingly  unintelligible  articles  —  a  cheap 
black  hat  pin,  a  piece  torn  off  a  theatre  programme, 
and  the  end  of  a  small  torn  card  on  which  was  the  word 
"left"  and  the  characters  "C  12." 

Shamrock  Jolnes  leaned  against  the  mantel  for  ten 
minutes,  with  his  head  resting  upon  his  hand,  and 
an  absorbed  look  upon  his  intellectual  face.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  he  exclaimed,  with  animation: 

"Come,  Mr.  Meeks;  the  problem  is  solved.  I  can 
take  you  directly  to  the  house  where  your  sister  is 
living.  And  you  may  have  no  fears  concerning  her 
welfare,  for  she  is  amply  provided  with  funds  —  for 
the  present  at  least." 

Meeks  felt  joy  and  wonder  in  equal  proportions. 

"How  did  you  manage  it.'*"  he  asked,  with  admira- 
tion in  his  tones. 

Perhaps  Jolnes 's  only  weakness  was  a  professional 
pride  in  his  wonderful  achievements  in  induction. 
He  was  ever  ready  to  astound  and  charm  his  listeners 
by  describing  his  methods. 

"By  elimination,"  said  Jolnes,  spreading  his  clues 
upon  a  little  table,  "I  got  rid  of  certain  parts  of  the 
city  to  which  Mrs.  Snyder  might  have  removed.     You 


The  Sleuths  27 

see  this  hatpin?  That  eliminates  Brooklyn.  No 
woman  attempts  to  board  a  car  at  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge  without  being  sure  that  she  carries  a  hatpin 
with  which  to  fight  her  way  into  a  seat.  And  now  I 
will  demonstrate  to  you  that  she  could  not  have  gone 
to  Harlem.  Behind  this  door  are  two  hooks  in  the 
wall.  Upon  one  of  these  Mrs.  Snyder  has  hung  her 
bonnet,  and  upon  the  other  her  shawl.  You  will 
observe  that  the  bottom  of  the  hanging  shawl  has 
gradually  made  a  soiled  streak  against  the  plastered 
wall.  The  mark  is  clean-cut,  proving  that  there  is 
no  fringe  on  the  shawl.  Now,  was  there  ever  a  case 
where  a  middle-aged  woman,  wearing  a  shawl,  boarded 
a  Harlem  train  without  there  being  a  fringe  on  the 
shawl  to  catch  in  the  gate  and  delay  the  passengers 
behind  her.f*     So  we  eliminate  Harlem. 

"Therefore  I  conclude  that  Mrs.  Snyder  has  not 
moved  very  far  away.  On  this  torn  piece  of  card 
you  see  the  word  "Left,"  the  letter  "C,"  and  the 
number  "12."  Now,  I  happen  to  know  that  No.  12 
Avenue  C  is  a  first-class  boarding  house,  far  beyond 
your  sister's  means  —  as  we  suppose.  But  then  I 
find  this  piece  of  a  theatre  programme,  crumpled  into 
an  odd  shape.  What  meaning  does  it  convey.  None 
to  you,  very  likely,  Mr.  Meeks;  but  it  is  eloquent  to 
one  whose  habits  and  training  take  cognizance  of  the 
smallest  things. 

"You  have  told  me  that  your  sister   was  a   scrub 


28  Sixes  and  Sevens 

woman.  She  scrubbed  the  floors  of  oflSces  and  hall- 
ways. Let  us  assume  that  she  procured  such  work  to 
perform  in  a  theatre.  Where  is  valuable  jewellery  lost 
the  oftenest,  Mr.  Meeks?  In  the  theatres,  of  course. 
Look  at  that  piece  of  programme,  Mr.  Meeks.  Ob- 
serve the  round  impression  in  it.  It  has  been  wrapped 
around  a  ring  —  perhaps  a  ring  of  great  value.  Mrs. 
Snyder  found  the  ring  while  at  work  in  the  theatre. 
She  hastily  tore  off  a  piece  of  a  programme,  wrapped 
the  ring  carefully,  and  thrust  it  into  her  bosom.  The 
next  day  she  disposed  of  it,  and,  with  her  increased 
means,  looked  about  her  for  a  more  comfortable  place 
in  which  to  live.  When  I  reach  thus  far  in  the  chain  I 
see  nothing  impossible  about  No.  12  Avenue  C,  It 
is  there  we  will  find  your  sister,  Mr.  Meeks." 

Shamrock  Jolnes  concluded  his  convincing  speech 
with  the  smile  of  a  successful  artist.  Meeks's  admir- 
ation was  too  great  for  words.  Together  they  went  to 
No.  12  Avenue  C.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  brown- 
stone  house  in  a  prosperous  and  respectable  neighbour- 
hood. 

They  rang  the  bell,  and  on  inquiring  were  told 
that  no  Mrs.  Snyder  was  known  there,  and  that  not 
within  six  months  had  a  new  occupant  come  to  the 
house. 

When  they  reached  the  sidewalk  again,  Meeks 
examined  the  clues  which  he  had  brought  away  from 
his  sister's  old  room. 


The  Sleuths  29 

"I  am  no  detective,"  he  remarked  to  Jolnes  as  he 
raised  the  piece  of  theatre  programme  to  his  nose, 
"but  it  seems  to  me  that  instead  of  a  ring  having  been 
wrapped  in  this  paper  it  was  one  of  those  round  pepper- 
mint drops.  And  this  piece  with  the  address  on  it 
looks  to  me  like  the  end  of  a  seat  coupon  —  No.  12, 
row  C,  left  aisle." 

Shamrock  Jolnes  had  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes. 

"I  think  you  would  do  well  to  consult  Juggins," 
said  he. 

"Who  is  Juggins?"  asked  Meeks. 

"He  is  the  leader,"  said  Jolnes,  "of  a  new  modern 
school  of  detectives.  Their  methods  are  different  from 
ours,  but  it  is  said  that  Juggins  has  solved  some  ex- 
tremely puzzling  cases.     I  will  take  you  to  him." 

They  found  the  greater  Juggins  in  his  office.  He 
was  a  small  man  with  light  hair,  deeply  absorbed  in 
reading  one  of  the  bourgeois  works  of  Nathaniel 
Hawthorne. 

The  two  great  detectives  of  different  schools  shook 
hands  with  ceremony,  and  Meeks  was  introduced. 

"State  the  facts,"  said  Juggins,  going  on  with  his 
reading. 

When  Meeks  ceased,  the  greater  one  closed  his 
book  and  said : 

"Do  I  understand  that  your  sister  is  fifty-two 
years  of  age,  with  a  large  mole  on  the  side  of  her  nose, 
and  that  she  is  a  very  poor  widow,  making  a  scanty 


30  Sixes  and  Sevens 

living  by  scrubbing,  and  with  a  very  homely  face  and 
figure?" 

"That  describes  her  exactly,"  admitted  Meeks. 
Juggins  rose  and  put  on  his  hat. 

"In  fifteen  minutes,"  he  said,  "  I  will  return,  bringing 
you  her  present  address." 

Shamrock  Jolnes  turned  pale,  but  forced  a  smile. 

Within  the  specified  time  Juggins  returned  and 
consulted  a  little  slip  of  paper  held  in  his  hand. 

"Your  sister,  Mary  Snyder,"  he  announced  calmly, 
"will  be  found  at  No.  162  Chilton  street.  She  is 
living  in  the  back  hall  bedroom,  five  flights  up.  The 
house  is  only  four  blocks  from  here,"  he  continued, 
addressing  Meeks.  "Suppose  you  go  and  verify  the 
statement  and  then  return  here.  Mr.  Jolnes  will 
await  you,  I  dare  say." 

Meeks  hurried  away.  In  twenty  minutes  he  was 
back  again,  with  a  beaming  face. 

"She  is  there  and  well!"  he  cried.  "Name  your 
fee!" 

"Two  dollars,"  said  Juggins. 

When  Meeks  had  settled  his  bill  and  departed. 
Shamrock  Jolnes  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  before 
Juggins. 

"If  it  would  not  be  asking  too  much,"  he  stammered 
— "  if  you  would  favour  me  so  far  —  would  you  object 
to " 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Juggins  pleasantly.     "I  will 


The  Sleuths  31 

tell  you  how  I  did  it.  You  remember  the  description 
of  Mrs.  Snyder?  Did  you  ever  know  a  woman  like  that 
who  wasn't  paying  weekly  instalments  on  an  enlarged 
crayon  portrait  of  herself.!*  The  biggest  factory  of 
that  kind  in  the  country  is  just  around  the  corner. 
I  went  there  and  got  her  address  off  the  books.  That's 
all." 


Ill 

WITCHES'  LOAVES 

Miss  MARTHA  IMEACHAM  kept  the  little  bakery 
on  the  corner  (the  one  where  you  go  up  three  steps, 
and  the  bell  tinkles  when  you  open  the  door). 

Miss  Martha  was  forty,  her  bank-book  showed  a 
credit  of  two  thousand  dollars,  and  she  possessed 
two  false  teeth  and  a  sympathetic  heart.  Many 
people  have  married  whose  chances  to  do  so  were 
much  inferior  to  Miss  Martha's. 

Two  or  tliree  times  a  week  a  customer  came  in  in 
whom  she  began  to  take  an  interest.  He  was  a  middle- 
aged  man,  wearing  spectacles  and  a  brown  beard 
trimmed  to  a  careful  point. 

He  spoke  English  with  a  strong  German  accent. 
His  clothes  were  worn  and  darned  in  places,  and 
wrinkled  and  baggy  in  others.  But  he  looked  neat, 
and  had  very  good  manners. 

He  always  bought  two  loaves  of  stale  bread.  Fresh 
bread  was  five  cents  a  loaf.  Stale  ones  were  two  for 
five.     Never  did  he  call  for  anything  but  stale  bread. 

Once  Miss  Martha  saw  a  red  and  brown  stain  on 
his  fingers.     She  was  sure  then  that  he  was  an  artist 

32 


Witches'  Loaves  38 

and  very  poor.  No  doubt  he  lived  in  a  garret,  where 
he  painted  pictures  and  ate  stale  bread  and  thought 
of  the  good  things  to  eat  in  Miss  Martha's  bakery. 

Often  when  Miss  Martha  sat  down  to  her  chops  and 
light  rolls  and  jam  and  tea  she  would  sigh,  and  wish 
that  the  gentle-mannered  artist  might  share  her  tasty 
meal  instead  of  eating  his  dry  crust  in  that  draughty 
attic.  Miss  Martha's  heart,  as  you  have  been  told, 
was  a  sympathetic  one. 

In  order  to  test  her  theory  as  to  his  occupation, 
she  brought  from  her  room  one  day  a  painting  that 
she  had  bought  at  a  sale,  and  set  it  against  the  shelves 
behind  the  bread  counter. 

It  was  a  Venetian  scene,  A  splendid  marble 
palazzio  (so  it  said  on  the  picture)  stood  in  the  fore- 
ground —  or  rather  forewater.  For  the  rest  there 
were  gondolas  (with  the  lady  trailing  her  hand  in  the 
water),  clouds,  sky,  and  chiaro-oscuro  in  plenty.  No 
artist  could  fail  to  notice  it. 

Two  days  afterward  the  customer  came  in. 

"Two  loafs  of  stale  bread,  if  you  blease. 

"You  haf  here  a  fine  bicture,madame,"he  said  while 
she  was  wrapping  up  the  bread. 

"Yes?"  says  Miss  Martha,  revelling  in  her  own 
cunning.  "  I  do  so  admire  art  and' '  (no,  it  would  not 
do  to  say  "artists"  thus  early)  "and  paintings,"  she 
substituted.     "You  think  it  is  a  good  picture?" 

"Der  balace,"  said  the  customer,  "is  not  in  good 


34  Sixes  and  Sevens 

drawing.  Der  bairspective  of  it  is  not  true.  Goot 
morning,  madame." 

He  took  his  bread,  bowed,  and  hurried  out. 

Yes,  he  must  be  an  artist.  Miss  Martha  took  the 
picture  back  to  her  room. 

How  gentle  and  kindly  his  eyes  shone  behind  his 
spectacles!  What  a  broad  brow  he  had!  To  be  able 
to  judge  perspective  at  a  glance  —  and  to  live  on  stale 
bread!  But  genius  often  has  to  struggle  before  it 
is  recognized. 

What  a  thing  it  would  be  for  art  and  perspective 
if  genius  were  backed  by  two  thousand  dollars  in  bank, 
a  bakery,  and  a  sympathetic  heart  to  —  But 
these  were  day-dreams.  Miss  Martha. 

Often  now  when  he  came  he  would  chat  for  a  while 
across  the  showcase.  He  seemed  to  crave  Miss 
Martha's  cheerful  words. 

He  kept  on  buying  stale  bread.  Never  a  cake, 
never  a  pie,  never  one  of  her  delicious  Sally  Lunns. 

She  thought  he  began  to  look  thinner  and  dis- 
couraged. Her  heart  ached  to  add  something  good 
to  eat  to  his  meagre  purchase,  but  her  courage  failed  at 
the  act.  She  did  not  dare  affront  him.  She  knew 
the  pride  of  artists. 

Miss  Martha  took  to  wearing  her  blue-dotted  silk 
waist  behind  the  counter.  In  the  back  room  she 
cooked  a  mysterious  compound  of  quince  seeds  and 
borax.     Ever  so  many  people  use  it  for  the  complexion. 


Witches'  Loaves  35 

One  day  the  customer  came  in  as  usual,  laid  his 
nickel  on  the  showcase,  and  called  for  his  stale  loaves. 
While  Miss  Martha  was  reaching  for  them  there  was 
a  great  tooting  and  clanging,  and  a  fire-engine  came 
lumbering  past. 

The  customer  hurried  to  the  door  to  look,  as  any- 
one will.  Suddenly  inspired.  Miss  Martha  seized 
the  opportunity. 

On  the  bottom  shelf  behind  the  counter  was  a  pound 
of  fresh  butter  that  the  dairyman  had  left  ten  minutes 
before.  With  a  bread  knife  Miss  Martha  made  a 
deep  slash  in  each  of  the  stale  loaves,  inserted  a 
generous  quantity  of  butter,  and  pressed  the  loaves 
tight  again. 

When  the  customer  turned  once  more  she  was  tying 
the  paper  around  them. 

When  he  had  gone,  after  an  unusually  pleasant  little 
chat,  Miss  Martha  smiled  to  herself,  but  not  without 
a  slight  fluttering  of  the  heart. 

Had  she  been  too  bold?  Would  he  take  offense? 
But  surely  not.  There  was  no  language  of  edibles. 
Butter  was  no  emblem  of  unmaidenly  forwardness. 

For  a  long  time  that  day  her  mind  dwelt  on  the 
subject.  She  imagined  the  scene  when  he  should 
discover  her  little  deception. 

He  would  lay  down  his  brushes  and  palette.  There 
would  stand  his  easel  with  the  picture  he  was  painting 
in  which  the  perspective  was  beyond  criticism. 


36  Sixes  and  Sevens 

He  would  prepare  for  his  luncheon  of  dry  bread 
and  water.     He  would  slice  into  a  loaf  —  ah ! 

Miss  Martha  blushed.  Would  he  think  of  the  hand 
that  placed  it  there  as  he  ate?     Would  he 

The  front  door  bell  jangled  viciously.  Somebody 
was  coming  in,  making  a  great  deal  of  noise. 

Miss  Martha  hurried  to  the  front.  Two  men  were 
there.  One  was  a  young  man  smoking  a  pipe  —  a 
man  she  had  never  seen  before.  The  other  was  her 
artist. 

His  face  was  very  red,  his  hat  was  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  his  hair  was  wildly  rumpled.  He  clinched 
his  two  fists  and  shook  them  ferociously  at  Miss 
Martha.     At  Miss  Martha. 

" Dummkopf! "  he  shouted  with  extreme  loudness; 
and  then  "  Tausendonfer!"  or  something  like  it  in 
German. 

The  young  man  tried  to  draw  him  away. 

"I  vill  not  go,"  he  said  angrily,  "else  I  shall  told 
her." 

He  made  a  bass  drum  of  Miss  Martha's  counter. 

"You  haf  shpoilt  me,"  he  cried,  his  blue  eyes  blazing 
behind  his  spectacles.  "I  vill  tell  you.  You  vas  von 
meddingsome  old  cat!" 

Miss  Martha  leaned  weakly  against  the  shelves 
and  laid  one  hand  on  her  blue-dotted  silk  waist.  The 
young  man  took  the  other  by  the  collar. 

"Come  on,"  he  said,  "you've  said  enough."     He 


Witches'  Loaves  37 

dragged  the  angry  one  out  at  the  door  to  the  sidewalk, 
and  then  came  back. 

"Guess  you  ought  to  be  told,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
"what  the  row  is  about.  That's  Blumberger.  He's 
an  architectural  draftsman.  I  work  in  the  same 
office  with  him. 

"He's  been  working  hard  for  three  months  draw- 
ing a  plan  for  a  new  city  hall.  It  was  a  prize 
competition.  He  finished  inking  the  lines  yesterday. 
You  know,  a  draftsman  always  makes  his  drawing 
in  pencil  first.  When  it's  done  he  rubs  out  the  pencil 
lines  with  handfuls  of  stale  bread  crumbs.  That's 
better  than  India  rubber. 

"  Blumberger's  been  buying  the  bread  here.  Well, 
to-day  —  well,  you  know,  ma'am,  that  butter  isn't  — 
well,  Blumberger's  plan  isn't  good  for  anything  now 
except  to  cut  up  into  railroad  sandwiches." 

Miss  Martha  went  into  the  back  room.  She  took 
ofiF  the  blue-dotted  silk  waist  and  put  on  the  old  brown 
serge  she  used  to  wear.  Then  she  poured  the  quince 
seed  and  borax  mixture  out  of  the  window  into  the 
ash  can. 


IV 

THE  PRIDE  OF  THE  CITIES 

oAID  Mr.  Kipling,  "The  cities  are  full  of  pride, 
challenging  each  to  each."     Even  so. 

New  York  was  empty.  Two  hundred  thousand 
of  its  people  were  away  for  the  summer.  Three 
million  eight  hundred  thousand  remained  as  care- 
takers and  to  pay  the  bills  of  the  absentees.  But 
the  two  hundred  thousand  are  an  expensive  lot. 

The  New  Yorker  sat  at  a  roof-garden  table,  ingest- 
ing solace  through  a  straw.  His  panama  lay  upon 
a  chair.  The  July  audience  was  scattered  among 
vacant  seats  as  widely  as  outfielders  when  the  cham- 
pion batter  steps  to  the  plate.  Vaudeville  happened 
at  intervals.  The  breeze  was  cool  from  the  bay; 
around  and  above  —  everywhere  except  on  the  stage 
—  were  stars.  Glimpses  were  to  be  had  of  waiters, 
always  disappearing,  like  startled  chamois.  Prudent 
visitors  who  had  ordered  refreshments  by  'phone 
in  the  morning  were  now  being  served.  The  New 
Yorker  was  aware  of  certain  drawbacks  to  his  com- 
fort, but  content  beamed  softly  from  his  rimless  eye- 
glasses.    His  family  was  out  of  town.     The  drinks 

58 


The  Pride  of  the  Cities  39 

were  warm;  the  ballet  was  suffering  from  lack  of 
both  tune  and  talcum  —  but  his  family  would  not 
return    until    September. 

Then  up  into  the  garden  stumbled  the  man  from 
Topaz  City,  Nevada.  The  gloom  of  the  solitary  sight- 
seer enwrapped  him.  Bereft  of  joy  through  loneliness, 
he  stalked  with  a  widower's  face  through  the  halls  of 
pleasure.  Thirst  for  human  companionship  possessed 
him  as  he  panted  in  the  metropolitan  draught. 
Straight  to  the  New  Yorker's  table  he  steered. 

The  New  Yorker,  disarmed  and  made  reckless  by 
the  lawless  atmosphere  of  a  roof  garden,  decided  upon 
utter  abandonment  of  his  life's  traditions.  He  re- 
solved to  shatter  with  one  rash,  dare-devil,  impulsive, 
hair-brained  act  the  conventions  that  had  hitherto 
been  woven  into  his  existence.  Carrying  out  this 
radical  and  precipitous  inspiration  he  nodded  slightly 
to  the  stranger  as  he  drew  nearer  the  table. 

The  next  moment  found  the  man  from  Topaz  City 
in  the  list  of  the  New  Yorker's  closest  friends.  He 
took  a  chair  at  the  table,  he  gathered  two  others  for 
his  feet,  he  tossed  his  broad-brimmed  hat  upon  a 
fourth,  and  told  his  life's  history  to  his  new-found 
pard. 

The  New  Yorker  warmed  a  little,  as  an  apartment- 
house  furnace  warms  when  the  strawberry  season 
begins.  A  waiter  who  came  within  hail  in  an  un- 
guarded moment  was  caotured  and  paroled  on   an 


40  Sixes  and  Sevens 

errand  to  the  Doctor  Wiley  experimental  station.  The 
ballet  was  now  in  the  midst  of  a  musical  vagary,  and 
danced  upon  the  stage  programmed  as  Bolivian  peas- 
ants, clothed  in  some  portions  of  its  anatomy  as 
Norwegian  fisher  maidens,  in  others  as  ladies-in-waiting 
of  Marie  Antoinette,  historically  denuded  in  other 
portions  so  as  to  represent  sea  nymphs,  and  present- 
ing the  tout  ensemble  of  a  social  club  of  Central  Park 
West  housemaids  at  a  fish  fry. 

"Been  in  the  city  long.?"  inquired  the  New  Yorker, 
getting  ready  the  exact  tip  against  the  waiter's  com- 
ing with  large  change  from  the  bill. 

"Me?"  said  the  man  from  Topaz  City.  "Four 
days.     Never  in  Topaz  City,  was  you?" 

"I!"  said  the  New  Yorker.  "I  was  never  farther 
west  than  Eighth  Avenue.  I  had  a  brother  who  died 
on  Ninth,  but  I  met  the  cortege  at  Eighth.  There 
was  a  bunch  of  violets  on  the  hearse,  and  the  under- 
taker mentioned  the  incident  to  avoid  mistake.  I 
cannot  say  that  I  am  familiar  with  the  West." 

"Topaz  City,"  said  the  man  who  occupied  four 
chairs,  "is  one  of  the  finest  towns  in  the  world." 

"I  presume  that  you  have  seen  the  sights  of  the 
metropolis,"  said  the  New  Yorker.  "Four  days  is 
not  a  sufiicient  length  of  time  in  which  to  view  even 
our  most  salient  points  of  interest,  but  one  can  pos- 
sibly form  a  general  impression.  Our  architectural 
supremacy  is  what  generally  strikes  visitors  to  our 


The  Pride  of  the  Cities  41 

city  most  forcibly.  Of  course  you  have  seen  our 
Flatiron  Building.     It  is  considered " 

"Saw  it,"  said  the  man  from  Topaz  City.  "But 
you  ought  to  come  out  our  way.  It's  mountainous, 
you  know,  and  the  ladies  all  wear  short  skirts  for 
climbing  and " 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  New  Yorker,  "but  that  isn't 
exactly  the  point.  New  York  must  be  a  wonderful 
revelation  to  a  visitor  from  the  West.  Now,  as  to 
our   hotels " 

"Say,"  said  the  man  from  Topaz  City,  "that  re- 
minds me  —  there  were  sixteen  stage  robbers  shot  last 
year  within  twenty  miles  of " 

"I  was  speaking  of  hotels,"  said  the  New  Yorker. 
"We  lead  Europe  in  that  respect.  And  as  far  as  our 
leisure  class  is  concerned  we  are  far " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  interrupted  the  man  from  To- 
paz City.  "There  were  twelve  tramps  in  our  jail 
when  I  left  home.     I  guess  New  York  isn't  so " 

"Beg  pardon,  you  seem  to  misapprehend  the  idea. 
Of  course,  you  visited  the  Stock  Exchange  and  Wall 
Street,  where  the " 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  the  man  from  Topaz  City,  as  he 
lighted  a  Pennsylvania  stogie,  "and  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  we've  got  the  finest  town  marshal  west  of 
the  Rockies.  Bill  Rainer  he  took  in  five  pickpockets  out 
of  the  crowd  when  Red  Nose  Thompson  laid  the  comer- 
stone  of  his  new  saloon.    Topaz  City  don't  allow " 


42  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"Have  another  Rhine  wine  and  seltzer,"  suggested 
the  New  Yorker.  "I've  never  been  West,  as  I  said; 
but  there  can't  be  any  place  out  there  to  compare 
with  New  York,     As  to  the  claims  of  Chicago  I " 

"One  man,"  said  the  Topazite  —  "one  man  only 
has  been  murdered  and  robbed  in  Topaz  City  in  the 
last  three " 

"Oh,  I  know  what  Chicago  is,"  interposed  the  New 
Yorker.  "Have  you  been  up  Fifth  Avenue  to  see 
the  magnificent  residences  of  our  mil " 

"Seen  'em  all.  You  ought  to  know  Reub  Stegall, 
the  assessor  of  Topaz.  When  old  man  Tilbury,  that 
owTis  the  only  two-story  house  in  town,  tried  to  swear 
his  taxes  from  $6,000  down  to  $450.75,  Reub  buckled 
on  his  forty-five  and  went  down  to  see " 

"Yes,  yes,  but  speaking  of  our  great  city  —  one  of 
its  greatest  features  is  our  superb  police  department. 
There  is  no  body  of  men  in  the  world  that  can  equal 
it   for " 

"That  waiter  gets  around  like  a  Langley  flying  ma- 
chine," remarked  the  man  from  Topaz  City,  thirstily. 
"We've  got  men  in  our  town,  too,  worth  $400,000. 
There's  old  Bill  Withers  and  Colonel  Metcalf  and " 

"Have  you  seen  Broadway  at  m^^?"  asked  the 
New  Yorker,  courteously.  "TheiC  afo  few  streets 
in  the  world  that  can  compare  with  it.  When  the 
electrics  are  shining  and  the  pavements  are  alive 
with    two    hurrying    streams    of    elegantly    clothed 


The  Pride  of  the  Cities  43 

men  and  beautiful  women  attired  in  the  costliest 
costumes  that  wind  in  and  out  in  a  close  maze  of 
expensively " 

"Never  knew  but  one  case  in  Topaz  City,"  said 
the  man  from  the  West.  "Jim  Bailey,  our  mayor, 
had  his  watch  and  chain  and  $235  in  cash  taken  from 
his  pocket  while " 

"That's  another  matter,"  said  the  New  Yorker. 
"While  you  are  in  our  city  you  should  avail  yourself 
of  every  opportunity  to  see  its  wonders.  Our  rapid 
transit  system " 

"If  you  was  out  in  Topaz,"  broke  in  the  man  from 
there,  "I  could  show  you  a  whole  cemetery  full  of 
people  that  got  killed  accidentally..  Talking  about 
mangling  folks  up!  why,  when  Berry  Rogers  turned 
loose  that  old  double-barrelled  shot-gun  of  his  loaded 
with  slugs  at  anybody " 

"Here,  waiter!"  called  the  New  Yorker.  "Two 
more  of  the  same.  It  is  acknowledged  by  every  one 
that  our  city  is  the  centre  of  art,  and  literature, 
and  learning.  Take,  for  instance,  our  after-dinner 
speakers.  Where  else  in  the  country  would  you 
find  such  wit  and  eloquence  as  emanate  from  Depew 
and  Ford,  and " 

"If  you  take  the  papers,"  interrupted  the  West- 
erner, "you  must  have  read  of  Pete  Webster's  daughter. 
The  Websters  live  two  blocks  north  of  the  court-house 
in  Topaz  City.     Miss  Tillie  Webster,  she  slept  forty 


44  Sixes  and  Sevens- 

days  and  nights  without  waking  up.     The  doctors 
said   that " 

"Pass  the  noiatches,  please,"  said  the  New  Yorker. 
"Have  you  observed  the  expedition  with  which  new 
buildings  are  being  run  up  in  New  York.?  Improved 
inventions  in  steel  framework  and " 

"I  noticed,"  said  the  Nevadian,  "  that  the  statistics 
of  Topaz  City  showed  only  one  carpenter  crushed  by 
falling  timbers  last  year  and  he  was  caught  in  a  cyclone." 

"They  abuse  our  sky  line,"  continued  the  New 
Yorker,  "and  it  is  likely  that  we  are  not  yet  artistic 
in  the  construction  of  our  buildings.  But  I  can  safely 
assert  that  we  lead  in  pictorial  and  decorative  art. 
In  some  of  our  houses  can  be  found  masterpieces  in 
the  way  of  paintings  and  sculpture.  One  who  has  the 
entree  to  our  best  galleries  will  find " 

"Back  up,"  exclaimed  the  man  from  Topaz  City. 
"There  was  a  game  last  month  in  our  town  in  which 
,000  changed  hands  on  a  pair  of " 


"Ta-romt-tara!"  went  the  orchestra.  The  stage 
curtain,  blushing  pink  at  the  name  "Asbestos"  in- 
scribed upon  it,  came  down  with  a  slow  midsummer 
movement.  The  audience  trickled  leisurely  down 
the  elevator  and  stairs. 

On  the  sidewalk  below,  the  New  Yorker  and  the 
man  from  Topaz  City  shook  hands  with  alcoholic 
gravity.  The  elevated  crashed  raucously,  surface 
cars  hummed  and  clanged,  cabmen  swore,  newsboys 


The  Pride  of  the  Cities  45 

shrieked,  wheels  clattered  ear-piercingly.  The  New 
Yorker  conceived  a  happy  thought,  with  which  he 
aspired  to  clinch  the  pre-eminence  of  his  city. 

"You  must  admit,"  said  he,  "that  in  the  way  of 
noise  New  York  is  far  ahead  of  any  other " 

"Back  to  the  everglades!"  said  the  man  from  Topaz 
City.  "In  1900,  when  Sousa's  band  and  the  repeating 
candidate  were  in  our  town  you  couldn't " 

The  rattle  of  an  express  wagon  drowned  the  rest  of 
the  words. 


HOLDING  UP  A  TRAIN 

Note.  The  man  who  told  me  these  things  was  for  several  years  an  outlaw  in 
the  Southwest  and  a  follower  of  the  pursuit  he  so  frankly  describes.  His  descrip- 
tion of  the  modus  operandi  should  prove  interesting,  his  counsel  of  value  to  the 
potential  passenger  in  some  future  "  hold-up,"  while  his  estimate  of  the  pleasures 
of  train  robbing  will  hardly  induce  any  one  to  adopt  it  as  a  profession,  I  give  the 
story  in  almost  exactly  his  own  words.  O.  H. 

JVlOST  people  would  say,  if  their  opinion  was  asked 
for,  that  holding  up  a  train  would  be  a  hard  job.  Well, 
it  isn't;  it's  easy.  I  have  contributed  some  to  the 
uneasiness  of  railroads  and  the  insomnia  of  express 
companies,  and  the  most  trouble  I  ever  had  about 
a  hold-up  was  in  being  swindled  by  unscrupulous  peo- 
ple while  spending  the  money  I  got.  The  danger 
wasn't  anything  to  speak  of,  and  we  didn't  mind  the 
trouble. 

One  man  has  come  pretty  near  robbing  a  train  by 
himself;  two  have  succeeded  a  few  times;  three  can 
do  it  if  they  are  hustlers,  but  five  is  about  the  right 
number.  The  time  to  do  it  and  the  place  depend 
upon  several  things. 

The  first  "stick-up"  I  was  ever  in  happened  in  1890. 
Maybe  the  way  I  got  into  it  will  explain  how  most 
train  robbers  start  in  the  business.     Five  out  of  six 

46 


Holding  Up  a  Train  47 

Western  outlaws  are  just  cowboys  out  of  a  job  and 
gone  wrong.  The  sixth  is  a  tough  from  the  East  who 
dresses  up  like  a  bad  man  and  plays  some  low-down 
trick  that  gives  the  boys  a  bad  name.  Wire  fences  and 
"  nesters  "made  five  of  them ;  a  bad  heart  made  the  sixth. 

Jim  S and  I  were  working  on  the  101  Ranch 

in  Colorado.  The  nesters  had  the  cowman  on  the 
go.  They  had  taken  up  thr  'and  and  elected  officers 
who  were  hard  to  get  along  with.  Jim  and  I  rode 
into  La  Junta  one  day,  going  south  from  a  round-up. 
We  were  having  a  little  fun  without  malice  toward  any- 
body when  a  farmer  administration  cut  in  and  tried 
to  harvest  us.  Jim  shot  a  deputy  marshal,  and  I 
kind  of  corroborated  his  side  of  the  argument.  We 
skirmished  up  and  down  the  main  street,  the  boomers 
having  bad  luck  all  the  time.  After  a  while  we  leaned 
forward  and  shoved  for  the  ranch  down  on  the  Ceriso. 
We  were  riding  a  couple  of  horses  that  couldn't 
fly,  but  they  could  catch  birds. 

A  few  days  after  that,  a  gang  of  the  La  Junta  boom- 
ers came  to  the  ranch  and  wanted  us  to  go  back  with 
them.  Naturally,  we  declined.  We  had  the  house 
on  them,  and  before  we  were  done  refusing,  that  old 
'dobe  was  plumb  full  of  lead.  When  dark  came  we 
fagged  'em  a  batch  of  bullets  and  shoved  out  the  back 
door  for  the  rocks.  They  sure  smoked  us  as  we  went. 
We  had  to  drift,  which  we  did,  and  rounded  up  down 
in  Oklahoma. 


48  Sixes  and  Sevens 

Well,  there  wasn't  anything  we  could  get  there, 
and,  being  mighty  hard  up,  we  decided  to  transact 
a  little  business  with  the  railroads.  Jim  and  I 
joined  forces  with  Tom  and  Ike  Moore  —  two  brothers 
who  had  plenty  of  sand  they  were  willing  to  convert 
into  dust.  I  can  call  their  names,  for  both  of  them  are 
dead.  Tom  was  shot  while  robbing  a  bank  in  Arkansas; 
Ike  was  killed  during  the  more  dangerous  pastime  of 
attending  a  dance  in  the  Creek  Nation. 

We  selected  a  place  on  the  Santa  Fe  where  there  was 
a  bridge  across  a  deep  creek  surrounded  by  heavy 
timber.  All  passenger  trains  took  water  at  the  tank 
close  to  one  end  of  the  bridge.  It  was  a  quiet  place, 
the  nearest  house  being  five  miles  away.  The  day 
before  it  happened,  we  rested  our  horses  and  "made 
medicine"  as  to  how  we  should  get  about  it.  Our 
plans  were  not  at  all  elaborate,  as  none  of  us  had  ever 
engaged  in  a  hold-up  before. 

The  Santa  Fe  flyer  was  due  at  the  tank  at  11.15  p.  m. 
At  eleven,  Tom  and  I  lay  down  on  one  side  of  the 
track,  and  Jim  and  Ike  took  the  other.  As  the  train 
rolled  up,  the  headlight  flashing  far  down  the  track 
and  the  steam  hissing  from  the  engine,  I  turned  weak 
all  over.  I  would  have  worked  a  whole  year  on  the 
ranch  for  nothing  to  have  been  out  of  that  affair  right 
then.  Some  of  the  nerviest  men  in  the  business  have 
told  me  that  they  felt  the  same  way  the  first  time. 

The   engine   had    hardly  stopped    when  I  jumped 


Holding  Up  a  Train  49 

on  the  running-board  on  one  side,  while  Jim  mounted 
the  other.  As  soon  as  the  engineer  and  fireman  saw 
our  guns  they  threw  up  their  hands  without  being  told, 
and  begged  us  not  to  shoot,  saying  they  would  do 
anything  we  wanted  them  to. 

"Hit  the  ground,"  I  ordered,  and  they  both  jumped 
off.  We  drove  them  before  us  down  the  side  of  the 
train.  While  this  was  happening,  Tom  and  Ike  had 
been  blazing  away,  one  on  each  side  of  the  train,  yelling 
like  Apaches,  so  as  to  keep  the  passengers  herded  in 
the  cars.  Some  fellow  stuck  a  little  twenty-two 
calibre  out  one  of  the  coach  windows  and  fired  it 
straight  up  in  the  air.  I  let  drive  and  smashed  the 
glass  just  over  his  head.  That  settled  everything  like 
resistance  from  that  direction. 

By  this  time  all  my  nervousness  was  gone.  I  felt 
a  kind  of  pleasant  excitement  as  if  I  were  at  a  dance  or 
a  frolic  of  some  sort.  The  lights  were  all  out  in  the 
coaches,  and,  as  Tom  and  Ike  gradually  quit  firing 
and  yelling,  it  got  to  be  almost  as  still  as  a  graveyard. 
I  remember  hearing  a  little  bird  chirping  in  a  bush  at 
the  side  of  the  track,  as  if  it  were  complaining  at  being 
waked  up. 

I  made  the  fireman  get  a  lantern,  and  then  I  went 
to  the  express  car  and  yelled  to  the  messenger  to  open 
up  or  get  perforated.  He  slid  the  door  back  and  stood 
in  it  with  his  hands  up.  "Jump  overboard,  son," 
I  said,  and  he  hit  the  dirt  like  a  lump  of  lead.     There 


50  Sixes  and  Sevens 

were  two  safes  in  the  car  —  a  big  one  and  a  little  one. 
By  the  way,  I  first  located  the  messenger's  arsenal  —  a 
double-barrelled  shot-gun  with  buckshot  cartridges  and 
a  thirty -eight  in  a  drawer.  I  drew  the  cartridges  from 
the  shot-gun,  pocketed  the  pistol,  and  called  the  mes- 
senger inside.  I  shoved  my  gun  against  his  nose  and 
put  him  to  work.  He  couldn't  open  the  big  safe,  but 
he  did  the  little  one.  There  was  only  nine  hundred 
dollars  in  it.  That  was  mighty  small  winnings  for  our 
trouble,  so  we  decided  to  go  through  the  passengers. 
We  took  our  prisoners  to  the  smoking-car,  and  from 
there  sent  the  engineer  through  the  train  to  light  up 
the  coaches.  Beginning  with  the  first  one,  we  placed 
a  man  at  each  door  and  ordered  the  passengers  to  stand 
between  the  seats  with  their  hands  up. 

If  you  want  to  find  out  what  cowards  the  majority 
of  men  are,  all  you  have  to  do  is  rob  a  passenger  train. 
I  don't  mean  because  they  don't  resist  —  I'll  tell  you 
later  on  why  they  can't  do  that  —  but  it  makes  a  man 
feel  sorry  for  them  the  way  they  lose  their  heads. 
Big,  burly  drummers  and  farmers  and  ex-soldiers  and 
high-collared  dudes  and  sports  that,  a  few  moments 
before,  were  filling  the  car  with  noise  and  bragging, 
get  so  scared  that  their  ears  flop. 

There  were  very  few  people  in  the  day  coaches  at 
that  time  of  night,  so  we  made  a  slim  haul  until  we 
got  to  the  sleeper.  The  Pullman  conductor  met  me 
at  one  door  while  Jim  was  going  round  to  the  other 


Holding  Up  a  Train  51 

one.  He  very  politely  informed  me  that  I  could  not 
go  into  that  car,  as  it  did  not  belong  to  the  railroad 
company,  and,  besides,  the  passengers  had  already 
been  greatly  disturbed  by  the  shouting  and  firing. 
Never  in  all  my  life  have  I  met  with  a  finer  instance  of 
official  dignity  and  reliance  upon  the  power  of  Mr.  Pull- 
man's great  name.  I  jabbed  my  six-shooter  so  hard 
against  Mr.  Conductor's  front  that  I  afterward  found 
one  of  his  vest  buttons  so  firmly  wedged  in  the  end  of 
the  barrel  that  I  had  to  shoot  it  out.  He  just  shut  up 
like  a  weak-springed  knife  and  rolled  down  the  car  steps. 

I  opened  the  door  of  the  sleeper  and  stepped  inside. 
A  big,  fat  old  man  came  wabbling  up  to  me,  puffing 
and  blowing.  He  had  one  coat-sleeve  on  and  was  try- 
ing to  put  his  vest  on  over  that.  I  don't  know  who 
he  thought  I  was. 

"Young  man,  young  man,"  says  he,  "you  must 
keep  cool  and  not  get  excited.  Above  everything, 
keep  cool. " 

"I  can't,"  says  I.  "Excitement's  just  eating  me 
up."  And  then  I  let  out  a  yell  and  turned  loose  my 
forty -five  through  the  skylight. 

That  old  man  tried  to  dive  into  one  of  the  lower 
berths,  but  a  screech  came  out  of  it  and  a  bare  foot 
that  took  him  in  the  bread-basket  and  landed  him  on 
the  floor.  I  saw  Jim  coming  in  the  other  door,  and 
I  hollered  for  everybody  to  climb  out  and  line  up. 

They  commenced  to  scramble  down,  and  for  a  while 


52  Sixes  and  Sevens 

we  had  a  three-ringed  circus.  The  men  looked  as 
frightened  and  tame  as  a  lot  of  rabbits  in  a  deep  snow. 
They  had  on,  on  an  average,  about  a  quarter  of  a  suit 
of  clothes  and  one  shoe  apiece.  One  chap  was  sitting 
on  the  floor  of  the  aisle,  looking  as  if  he  were  working  a 
hard  sum  in  arithmetic.  He  was  trying,  very  solemn,  to 
pull  a  lady's  number  two  shoe  on  his  number  nine  foot. 

The  ladies  didn't  stop  to  dress.  They  were  so  curious 
to  see  a  real,  live  train  robber,  bless  'em,  that  they  just 
wrapped  blankets  and  sheets  around  themselves  and 
came  out,  squeaky  and  fidgety  looking.  They  always 
show  more  curiosity  and  sand  than  the  men  do. 

We  got  them  all  lined  up  and  pretty  quiet,  and  I  went 
through  the  bunch.  I  found  very  little  on  them  —  I 
mean  in  the  way  of  valuables.  One  man  in  the  line 
was  a  sight.  He  was  one  of  those  big,  overgrown, 
solemn  snoozers  that  sit  on  the  platform  at  lectures 
and  look  wise.  Before  crawling  out  he  had  managed 
to  put  on  his  long,  frock-tailed  coat  and  his  high  silk 
hat.  The  rest  of  him  was  nothing  but  pajamas  and 
bunions.  When  I  dug  into  that  Prince  Albert,  I  ex- 
pected to  drag  out  at  least  a  block  of  gold  mine  stock 
or  an  armful  of  Government  bonds,  but  all  I  found  was 
a  little  boy's  French  harp  about  four  inches  long. 
What  it  was  there  for,  I  don't  know.  I  felt  a  little 
mad  because  he  had  fooled  me  so.  I  stuck  the  harp 
up  against  his  mouth. 

"If  you  can't  pay  —  play,"  I  says. 


Holding  Up  a  Train  53 

"I  can't  play,"  says  he. 

"Then  learn  right  off  quick,"  says  I,  letting  him 
smell  the  end  of  my  gun-barrel. 

He  caught  hold  of  the  harp,  turned  red  as  a  beet, 
and  commenced  to  blow.  He  blew  a  dinky  little  tune 
I  remembered  hearing  when  I  was  a  kid: 

Prettiest  little  gal  in  the  country — oh! 
Mammy  and  Daddy  told  me  so. 

I  made  him  keep  on  playing  it  all  the  time  we  were 
in  the  car.  Now  and  then  he'd  get  weak  and  off  the 
key,  and  I'd  turn  my  gun  on  him  and  ask  what  was 
the  matter  with  that  little  gal,  and  whether  he  had 
any  intention  of  going  back  on  her,  which  would  make 
him  start  up  again  like  sixty.  I  think  that  old  boy 
standing  there  in  his  silk  hat  and  bare  feet,  playing  his 
little  French  harp,  was  the  funniest  sight  I  ever  saw. 
One  little  red-headed  woman  in  the  line  broke  out 
laughing  at  him.  You  could  have  heard  her  in  the 
next  car. 

Then  Jim  held  them  steady  while  I  searched  the 
berths.  I  grappled  around  in  those  beds  and 
filled  a  pillow-case  with  the  strangest  assortment 
of  stuff  you  ever  saw.  Now  and  then  I'd  come 
across  a  little  pop-gun  pistol,  just  about  right 
for  plugging  teeth  with,  which  I'd  throw  out  the 
window.  When  I  finished  with  the  collection,  I 
dumped  the  pillow-case  load  in  the  middle  of  the  aisle. 


54  Sixes  and  Sevens 

There  were  a  good  many  watches,  bracelets,  rings,  and 
pocket-books,  with  a  sprinkHng  of  false  teeth,  whiskey 
flasks,  face-powder  boxes,  chocolate  caramels,  and 
heads  of  hair  of  various  colours  and  lengths.  There 
were  also  about  a  dozen  ladies'  stockings  into  which 
jewellery,  watches,  and  rolls  of  bills  had  been  stuffed 
and  then  wadded  up  tight  and  stuck  under  the  mat- 
tresses. I  offered  to  return  what  I  called  the  "  scalps, " 
saying  that  we  were  not  Indians  on  the  war-path,  but 
none  of  the  ladies  seemed  to  know  to  whom  the  hair 
belonged. 

One  of  the  women  —  and  a  good-looker  she  was  — 
wrapped  in  a  striped  blanket,  saw  me  pick  up  one  of 
the  stockings  that  was  pretty  chunky  and  heavy  about 
the  toe,  and  she  snapped  out: 

"That's  mine,  sir.  You're  not  in  the  business  of 
robbing  women,  are  you?" 

Now,  as  this  was  our  first  hold-up,  we  hadn't  agreed 
upon  any  code  of  ethics,  so  I  hardly  knew  what  to 
answer.  But,  anyway,  I  replied:  "Well,  not  as  a 
specialty.  If  this  contains  your  personal  property 
you  can  have  it  back. " 

"It  just  does,"  she  declared  eagerly,  and  reached 
out  her  hand  for  it. 

"You'll  excuse  my  taking  a  look  at  the  contents," 
I  said,  holding  the  stocking  up  by  the  toe.  Out 
dumped  a  big  gent's  gold  watch,  worth  two  hundred, 
a  gent's  leather  pocket-book  that  we  afterward  found 


Holding  Up  a  Train  55 

lo  contain  six  hundred  dollars,  a  32-calibre  revolver; 
and  the  only  thing  of  the  lot  that  could  have  been  a 
lady's  personal  property  was  a  silver  bracelet  worth 
about  fifty  cents. 

I  said:  "Madame,  here's  your  property,"  and 
handed  her  the  bracelet.  "Now,"  I  went  on,  "how 
can  you  expect  us  to  act  square  with  you  when  you 
try  to  deceive  us  in  this  manner?  I'm  surprised  at 
such  conduct. " 

The  young  woman  flushed  upas  if  she  had  been 
caught  doing  something  dishonest.  Some  other  woman 
down  the  line  called  out:  "The  mean  thing!"  I 
never  knew  whether  she  meant  the  other  lady  or  me. 

When  we  finished  our  job  we  ordered  everybody 
back  to  bed,  told  'em  good  night  very  politely  at  the 
door,  and  left.  We  rode  forty  miles  before  daylight 
and  then  divided  the  stuff.  Each  one  of  us  got 
$1,752.85  in  money.  We  lumped  the  jewellery  around. 
Then  we  scattered,  each  man  for  himself. 

That  was  my  first  train  robbery,  and  it  was  about 
as  easily  done  as  any  of  the  ones  that  followed.  But 
that  was  the  last  and  only  time  I  ever  went  through 
the  passengers.  I  don't  like  that  part  of  the  business. 
Afterward  I  stuck  strictly  to  the  express  car.  During 
the  next  eight  years  I  handled  a  good  deal  of  money. 

The  best  haul  I  made  was  just  seven  years  after 
the  first  one.  We  found  out  about  a  train  that  was 
going  to  bring  out  a  lot  of  money  to  pay  off  the  soldiers 


56  Sixes  and  Sevens 

at  a  Government  post.  We  stuck  that  train  up  in 
broad  daylight.  Five  of  us  lay  in  the  sand  hills  near 
a  little  station.  Ten  soldiers  were  guarding  the  money 
on  the  train,  but  they  might  just  as  well  have  been  at 
home  on  a  furlough.  We  didn't  even  allow  them  to 
stick  their  heads  out  the  windows  to  see  the  fun. 
We  had  no  trouble  at  all  in  getting  the  money,  which 
was  all  in  gold.  Of  course,  a  big  howl  was  raised  at 
the  time  about  the  robbery.  It  was  Government  stuff, 
and  the  Government  got  sarcastic  and  wanted  to  know 
what  the  convoy  of  soldiers  went  along  for.  The 
only  excuse  given  was  that  nobody  was  expecting  an 
attack  among  those  bare  sand  hills  in  daytime.  I 
don't  know  what  the  Government  thought  about  the 
excuse,  but  I  know  that  it  was  a  good  one.  The 
surprise  —  that  is  the  keynote  of  the  train-robbing 
business.  The  papers  published  all  kinds  of  stories 
about  the  loss,  finally  agreeing  that  it  was  between 
nine  thousand  and  ten  thousand  dollars.  The  Gov- 
ernment sawed  wood.  Here  are  the  correct  figures, 
printed  for  the  first  time  —  forty-eight  thousand 
dollars.  If  anybody  vn\l  take  the  trouble  to  look  over 
Uncle  Sam's  private  accounts  for  that  little  debit  to 
profit  and  loss,  he  mil  find  that  I  am  right  to  a  cent. 

By  that  time  we  were  expert  enough  to  know  what 
to  do.  We  rode  due  west  twenty  miles,  making  a 
trail  that  a  Broadway  policeman  could  have  followed, 
and  then  we  doubled  back,  hiding  our  tracks.     On  the 


Holding  Up  a  Train  57 

second  night  after  the  hold-up,  while  posses  were 
scouring  the  country  in  every  direction,  Jim  and  I 
were  eating  supper  in  the  second  story  of  a  friend's 
house  in  the  town  where  the  alarm  started  from. 
Our  friend  pointed  out  to  us,  in  an  office  across  the 
street,  a  printing  press  at  work  striking  off  handbills 
offering  a  reward  for  our  capture. 

I  have  been  asked  what  we  do  with  the  money  we 
get.  Well,  I  never  could  account  for  a  tenth  part  of 
it  after  it  was  spent.  It  goes  fast  and  freely.  An 
outlaw  has  to  have  a  good  many  friends.  A  highly 
respected  citizen  may,  and  often  does,  get  along  with 
very  few,  but  a  man  on  the  dodge  has  got  to  have 
"sidekickers. "  With  angry  posses  and  reward-hungry 
officers  cutting  out  a  hot  trail  for  him,  he  must  have 
a  few  places  scattered  about  the  country  where  he 
can  stop  and  feed  himself  and  his  horse  and  get  a 
few  hours'  sleep  without  having  to  keep  both  eyes  open. 
When  he  makes  a  haul  he  feels  like  dropping  some  of 
the  coin  with  these  friends,  and  he  does  it  liberally. 
Sometimes  I  have,  at  the  end  of  a  hasty  visit  at  one 
of  these  havens  of  refuge,  flung  a  handful  of  gold  and 
bills  into  the  laps  of  the  kids  playing  on  the  floor, 
without  knowing  whether  my  contribution  was  a 
hundred  dollars  or  a  thousand. 

When  old-timers  make  a  big  haul  they  generally 
go  far  away  to  one  of  the  big  cities  to  spend  their 
moneJ^     Green  hands,  however  successful  a  hold-up 


58  Sixes  and  Sevens 

they  make,  nearly  always  give  themselves  away  by 
showing  too  much  money  near  the  place  where  they 
got  it. 

I  was  in  a  job  in  '94  where  we  got  twenty  thousand 
dollars.  We  followed  our  favourite  plan  for  a  get-away 
—  that  is,  doubled  on  our  trail  —  and  laid  low  for  a 
time  near  the  scene  of  the  train's  bad  luck.  One 
morning  I  picked  up  a  newspaper  and  read  an  article 
with  big  headlines  stating  that  the  marshal,  with  eight 
deputies  and  a  posse  of  thirty  armed  citizens,  had  the 
train  robbers  surrounded  in  a  mesquite  thicket  on  the 
Cimarron,  and  that  it  was  a  question  of  only  a  few 
hours  when  they  would  be  dead  men  or  prisoners. 
While  I  was  reading  that  article  I  was  sitting  at  break- 
fast in  one  of  the  most  elegant  private  residences  in 
Washington  City,  with  a  flunky  in  knee  pants  standing 
behind  my  chair.  Jim  was  sitting  across  the  table 
talking  to  his  half-uncle,  a  retired  naval  officer,  whose 
name  you  have  often  seen  in  the  accounts  of  doings 
in  the  capital.  We  had  gone  there  and  bought 
rattling  outfits  of  good  clothes,  and  were  resting  from 
our  labours  among  the  nabobs.  We  must  have  been 
killed  in  that  mesquite  thicket,  for  I  can  make  an 
affidavit  that  we  didn't  surrender. 

Now  I  propose  to  tell  why  it  is  easy  to  hold  up  a 
train,  and,  then,  why  no  one  should  ever  do  it. 

In  the  first  place,  the  attacking  party  has  all  the 
advantage.     That  is,  of  course,  supposing  that  they  are 


Holding  Up  a  Train  59 

old-timers  with  the  necessary  experience  and  courage. 
They  have  the  outside  and  are  protected  by  the  dark- 
ness, while  the  others  are  in  the  light,  hemmed  into 
a  small  space,  and  exposed,  the  moment  they  show  a 
head  at  a  window  or  door,  to  the  aim  of  a  man  who  is  a 
dead  shot  and  who  won't  hesitate  to  shoot. 

But,  in  my  opinion,  the  main  condition  that  makes 
train  robbing  easy  is  the  element  of  surprise  in  con- 
nection with  the  imagination  of  the  passengers.  If 
you  have  ever  seen  a  horse  that  has  eaten  loco  weed 
you  will  understand  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  the 
passengers  get  locoed.  That  horse  gets  the  awfullest 
imagination  on  him  in  the  world.  You  can't  coax 
him  to  cross  a  little  branch  stream  two  feet  wide.  It 
looks  as  big  to  him  as  the  Mississippi  River.  That's 
just  the  way  with  the  passenger.  He  thinks  there  are 
a  hundred  men  yelling  and  shooting  outside,  when  may- 
be there  are  only  two  or  three.  And  the  muzzle  of 
a  forty-five  looks  like  the  entrance  to  a  tunnel.  The 
passenger  is  all  right,  although  he  may  do  mean  little 
tricks,  like  hiding  a  wad  of  money  in  his  shoe  and  for- 
getting to  dig-up  until  you  jostle  his  ribs  some  with  the 
end  of  your  six-shooter;  but  there's  no  harm  in  him. 

As  to  the  train  crew,  we  never  had  any  more  trouble 
with  them  than  if  they  had  been  so  many  sheep.  I 
don't  mean  that  they  are  cowards;  I  mean  that 
they  have  got  sense.  They  know  they're  not  up 
against  a  bluff.     It's  the  same  way  with  the  officers. 


(>0  Sixes  and  Sevens 

I've  seen  secret  service  men,  marshals,  and  railroad 
detectives  fork  over  their  change  as  meek  as 
Moses.  I  saw  one  of  the  bravest  marshals  I  ever 
knew  hide  his  gun  under  his  seat  and  dig  up  along 
with  the  rest  while  I  was  taking  toll.  He  wasn't 
afraid;  he  simply  knew  that  we  had  the  drop  on  the 
whole  outfit.  Besides,  many  of  those  ofScers  have 
families  and  they  feel  that  they  oughtn't  to  take 
chances;  whereas  death  has  no  terrors  for  the  man 
who  holds  up  a  train.  He  expects  to  get  killed 
some  day,  and  he  generally  does.  My  advice  to  you, 
if  you  should  ever  be  in  a  hold-up,  is  to  line  up  with 
the  cowards  and  save  your  bravery  for  an  occasion 
when  it  may  be  of  some  benefit  to  you.  Another  rea- 
son why  officers  are  backward  about  mixing  things  with 
a  train  robber  is  a  financial  one.  Every  time  there 
is  a  scrimmage  and  somebody  gets  killed,  the  officers 
lose  money.  If  the  train  robber  gets  away  they 
swear  out  a  warrant  against  John  Doe  et  al.  and  travel 
hundreds  of  miles  and  sign  vouchers  for  thousands  on 
the  trail  of  the  fugitives,  and  the  Government  foots 
the  bills.  So,  with  them,  it  is  a  question  of  mileage 
rather  than  courage. 

I  will  give  one  instance  to  support  my  statement 
that  the  surprise  is  the  best  card  in  playing  for  a 
hold-up. 

Along  in  '92  the  Daltons  were  cutting  out  a  hot  trail 
for  the  officers  down  in  the  Cherokee  Nation.     Those 


Holding  Up  a  Train  61 

were  their  lucky  days,  and  they  got  so  reckless  and 
sandy,  that  they  used  to  announce  before  hand  what 
job  they  were  going  to  undertake.  Once  they  gave 
it  out  that  they  were  going  to  hold  up  the  M.  K.  &  T. 
flyer  on  a  certain  night  at  the  station  of  Pryor  Creek, 
in  Indian  Territory. 

That  night  the  railroad  company  got  fifteen  deputy 
marshals  in  Muscogee  and  put  them  on  the  train. 
Beside  them  they  had  fifty  armed  men  hid  in  the  depot 
at  Pryor  Creek. 

When  the  Katy  Flyer  pulled  in  not  a  Dalton  showed 
up.  The  next  station  was  Adair,  six  miles  away. 
When  the  train  reached  there,  and  the  deputies  were 
having  a  good  time  explaining  what  they  would  have 
done  to  the  Dalton  gang  if  they  had  turned  up,  all 
at  once  it  sounded  like  an  army  firing  outside.  The 
conductor  and  brakeman  came  running  into  the  car 
yelling,  "Train  robbers!" 

Some  of  those  deputies  lit  out  of  the  door,  hit  the 
ground,  and  kept  on  running.  Some  of  them  hid  their 
W^inchesters  under  the  seats.  Two  of  them  made  a 
fight  and  were  both  killed. 

It  took  the  Daltons  just  ten  minutes  to  capture  the 
train  and  whip  the  escort.  In  twenty  minutes  more 
they  robbed  the  express  car  of  twenty-seven  thousand 
dollars  and  made  a  clean  get-away. 

My  opinion  is  that  those  deputies  would  have  put 
up  a  stiff  fight  at  Pryor  Creek,  where  they  were  ex- 


62  Sixes  and  Sevens 

pecting  trouble,  but  they  were  taken  by  surprise  and 
"locoed"  at  Adair,  just  as  the  Daltons,  who  knew 
their  business,  expected  they  would. 

I  don't  think  I  ought  to  close  without  giving  some 
deductions  from  my  experience  of  eight  years  "on  the 
dodge."  It  doesn't  pay  to  rob  trains.  Leaving  out 
the  question  of  right  and  morals,  which  I  don't  think 
I  ought  to  tackle,  there  is  very  little  to  envy  in  the 
life  of  an  outlaw.  After  a  while  money  ceases  to  have 
any  value  in  his  eyes.  He  gets  to  looking  upon  the 
railroads  and  express  companies  as  his  bankers,  and 
his  six-shooter  as  a  cheque  book  good  for  any  amount. 
He  throws  away  money  right  and  left.  Most  of  the 
time  he  is  on  the  jump,  riding  day  and  night,  and  he 
lives  so  hard  between  times  that  he  doesn't  enjoy  the 
taste  of  high  life  when  he  gets  it.  He  knows  that  his 
time  is  bound  to  come  to  lose  his  life  or  liberty,  and 
that  the  accuracy  of  his  aim,  the  speed  of  his  horse, 
and  the  fidelity  of  his  "sider, "  are  all  that  postpone  the 
inevitable. 

It  isn't  that  he  loses  any  sleep  over  danger  from  the 
officers  of  the  law.  In  all  my  experience  I  never  knew 
officers  to  attack  a  band  of  outlaws  unless  they  out- 
numbered them  at  least  three  to  one. 

But  the  outlaw  carries  one  thought  constantly  in 
his  mind  —  and  that  is  what  makes  him  so  sore  against 
life,  more  than  anything  else  —  he  knows  where  the 
marshals  get  their  recruits  of  deputies.     He  knows 


Holding  Up  a  Train  63 

that  the  majority  of  these  upholders  of  the  law  were 
once  lawbreakers,  horse  thieves,  rustlers,  highwaymen, 
and  outlaws  like  himself,  and  that  they  gained  their 
positions  and  immunity  by  turning  state's  evidence, 
by  turning  traitor  and  delivering  up  their  comrades 
to  imprisonment  and  death.  He  knows  that  some 
day  —  unless  he  is  shot  first  —  his  Judas  will  set  to 
work,  the  trap  will  be  laid,  and  he  will  be  the  surprised 
instead  of  a  surpriser  at  a  stick-up. 

That  is  why  the  man  who  holds  up  trains  picks  his 
company  with  a  thousand  times  the  care  with  which 
a  careful  girl  chooses  a  sweetheart.  That  is  why  he 
raises  himself  from  his  blanket  of  nights  and  listens 
to  the  tread  of  every  horse's  hoofs  on  the  distant  road. 
That  is  why  he  broods  suspiciously  for  days  upon  a 
jesting  remark  or  an  unusual  movement  of  a  tried 
comrade,  or  the  broken  mutterings  of  his  closest 
friend,  sleeping  by  his  side. 

And  it  is  one  of  the  reasons  why  the  train-robbing 
profession  is  not  so  pleasant  a  one  as  either  of  its 
collateral  branches  —  politics  or  cornering  the  market. 


VI 

ULYSSES  AND  THE  DOGMAN 

1_)0  YOU  know  the  time  of  the  dogmen? 

When  the  forefinger  of  twilight  begins  to  smudge 
the  clear-draw^n  lines  of  the  Big  City  there  is  inaugu- 
rated an  hour  devoted  to  one  of  the  most  melancholy 
sights  of  urban  life. 

Out  from  the  towering  flat  crags  and  apartment 
peaks  of  the  cliff  dwellers  of  New  York  steals  an  army 
of  beings  that  were  once  men.  Even  yet  they  go 
upright  upon  two  limbs  and  retain  human  form  and 
speech;  but  you  will  observe  that  they  are  behind 
animals  in  progress.  Each  of  these  beings  follows 
a  dog,  to  which  he  is  fastened  by  an  artificial 
ligament. 

These  men  are  all  victims  to  Circe.  Not  willingly 
do  they  become  flunkeys  to  Fido,  bell  boys  to  bull 
terriers,  and  toddlers  after  Towzer.  Modern  Circe,  in- 
stead of  turning  them  into  animals,  has  kindly  left 
the  difference  of  a  six-foot  leash  between  them.  Every 
one  of  those  dogmen  has  been  either  cajoled,  bribed, 
or  commanded  by  his  own  particular  Circe  to  take 
the  dear  household  pet  out  for  an  airing. 

64 


Ulysses  and  the  Dogman  65 

By  their  faces  and  manner  you  can  tell  that  the 
dogmen  are  bound  in  a  hopeless  enchantment.  Never 
will  there  come  even  a  dog-catcher  Ulysses  to  remove 
the  spell. 

The  faces  of  some  are  stonily  set.  They  are  past 
the  commiseration,  the  curiosity,  or  the  jeers  of  their 
fellow-beings.  Years  of  matrimony,  of  continuous 
compulsory  canine  constitutionals,  have  made  them 
callous.  They  unwind  their  beasts  from  lamp  posts, 
or  the  ensnared  legs  of  profane  pedestrians,  with  the 
stolidity  of  mandarins  manipulating  the  strings  of 
their  kites. 

Others,  more  recently  reduced  to  the  ranks  of 
Rover's  retinue,  take  their  medicine  sulkily  and 
fiercely.  They  play  the  dog  on  the  end  of  their 
line  with  the  pleasure  felt  by  the  girl  out  fishing  when 
she  catches  a  sea-robin  on  her  hook.  They  glare  at 
you  threateningly  if  you  look  at  them,  as  if  it  would 
be  their  delight  to  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war.  These  are 
half-mutinous  dogmen,  not  quite  Circe-ized,  and  you 
will  do  well  not  to  kick  their  charges,  should  they  sniff 
around  your  ankles. 

Others  of  the  tribe  do  not  seem  to  feel  so  keenly. 
They  are  mostly  unfresh  youths,  with  gold  caps  and 
drooping  cigarettes,  who  do  not  harmonize  with  their 
dogs.  The  animals  they  attend  wear  satin  bows 
in  their  collars;  and  the  young  men  steer  them  so 
assiduously    that  you    are    tempted    to   the    theory 


66  Sixes  and  Sevens 

that  some  personal  advantage,  contingent  upon 
satisfactory  service,  waits  upon  the  execution  of 
their  duties. 

The  dogs  thus  personally  conducted  are  of  many 
varieties;  but  they  are  one  in  fatness,  in  pampered, 
diseased  vileness  of  temper,  in  insolent,  snarling  capri- 
ciousness  of  behaviour.  They  tug  at  the  leash  frac- 
tiously,  they  make  leisurely  nasal  inventory  of  every 
door  step,  railing,  and  post.  They  sit  down  to  rest 
when  they  choose;  they  wheeze  like  the  winner  of  a 
Third  Avenue  beefsteak-eating  contest;  they  blunder 
clumsily  into  open  cellars  and  coal  holes;  they  lead 
the  dogmen  a  merry  dance. 

These  unfortunate  dry  nurses  of  dogdom,  the  cur 
cuddlers,  mongrel  managers,  Spitz  stalkers,  poodle 
pullers,  Skye  scrapers,  dachshund  dandlers,  terrier 
trailers  and  Pomeranian  pushers  of  the  cliff-dwelling 
Circes  follow  their  charges  meekly.  The  doggies 
neither  fear  nor  respect  them.  Masters  of  the  house 
these  men  whom  they  hold  in  leash  may  be,  but  they 
are  not  masters  of  them.  From  cosey  corner  to  fire 
escape,  from  divan  to  dumbwaiter,  doggy's  snarl  easily 
drives  this  two-legged  being  who  is  commissioned 
to  walk  at  the  other  end  of  his  string  during 
his  outing. 

One  twilight  the  dogmen  came  forth  as  usual  at 
their  Circes'  pleading,  guerdon,  or  crack  of  the  whip. 
One  among  them  was  a  strong  man,  apparently  of 


Ulysses  and  the  Dogman  67 

too  solid  virtues  for  this  airy  vocation.  His  expres- 
sion was  melancholic,  his  manner  depressed.  He 
was  leashed  to  a  vile  white  dog,  loathsomely  fat, 
fiendishly  ill-natured,  gloatingly  intractable  toward 
his   despised   conductor. 

At  a  corner  nearest  to  his  apartment  house  the 
dogman  turned  down  a  side  street,  hoping  for  fewer 
witnesses  to  his  ignominy.  The  surfeited  beast 
waddled  before  him,  panting  with  spleen  and  the 
labour  of  motion. 

Suddenly  the  dog  stopped.  A  tall,  brown,  long- 
coated,  wide-brimmed  man  stood  like  a  Colossus 
blocking  the  sidewalk  and  declaring: 

"Well,  I'm  a  son  of  a  gun!" 

"Jim  Berry!"  breathed  the  dogman,  with  exclama- 
tion points  in  his  voice. 

"Sam  Telfair,"  cried  Wide-Brim  again,  "you  ding- 
basted  old  willy-walloo,  give  us  your  hoof!" 

Their  hands  clasped  in  the  brief,  tight  greeting 
of  the  West  that  is  death  to  the  hand-shake 
microbe. 

"You  old  fat  rascal!"  continued  Wide-Brim, 
with  a  wrinkled  brown  smile;  "it's  been  five 
years  since  I  seen  you.  I  been  in  this  town  a 
week,  but  you  can't  find  nobody  in  such  a  place. 
Well,  you  dinged  old  married  man,  how  are  they 
coming?" 

Something  mushy  and  heavily  soft  like  raised  dough 


68  Sixes  and  Sevens 

leaned  against  Jim's  leg  and  chewed  his  trousers  with 
a  yeasty  growl. 

"Get  to  work,"  said  Jim,  "and  explain  this  yard- 
wide  hydrophobia  yearling  you've  throwed  your  lasso 
over.  Are  you  the  pound-master  of  this  burg?  Do 
you  call  that  a  dog  or  what?" 

"I  need  a  drink,"  said  the  dogman,  dejected  at 
the  reminder  of  his  old  dog  of  the  sea.     "Come  on." 

Hard  by  was  a  cafe.  'Tis  ever  so  in  the  big 
city. 

They  sat  at  a  table,  and  the  bloated  monster  yelped 
and  scrambled  at  the  end  of  his  leash  to  get  at  the 
cafe  cat. 

"Whiskey,"  said  Jim  to  the  waiter. 

"Make  it  two,"  said  the  dogman. 

"You're  fatter,"  said  Jim,  "and  you  look  subju- 
gated. I  don't  know  about  the  East  agreeing  with 
you.  All  the  boys  asked  me  to  hunt  you  up  when 
I  started.  Sandy  King,  he  went  to  the  Klondike. 
Watson  Burrel,  he  married  the  oldest  Peters  girl. 
I  made  some  money  buying  beeves,  and  I  bought 
a  lot  of  wild  land  up  on  the  Little  Powder.  Going 
to  fence  next  fall.  Bill  Rawlins,  he's  gone  to  farming. 
You  remember  Bill,  of  course  —  he  was  courting 
Marcella  —  excuse  me,  Sam  —  I  mean  the  lady  you 
married,  while  she  was  teaching  school  at  Prairie 
View.  But  you  was  the  lucky  man.  How  is  Missis 
Telfair?" 


Ulysses  and  the  Dogman  69 

"S-h-h-h!"  said  the  dogman,  signalling  the  waiter; 
"give  it  a  name." 

"Whiskey,"  said  Jim. 

"Make  it  two,"  said  the  dogman. 

"She's  well,"  he  continued,  after  his  chaser.  "She 
refused  to  live  anywhere  but  in  New  York,  where 
she  came  from.  We  live  in  a  flat.  Every  evening  at 
six  I  take  that  dog  out  for  a  walk.  It's  Marcella's 
pet.  There  never  were  two  animals  on  earth,  Jim, 
that  hated  one  another  like  me  and  that  dog  does. 
His  name's  Lovekins.  Marcella  dresses  for  dinner 
while  we're  out.  We  eat  tabble  dote.  Ever  try  one 
of  them,  Jim?" 

"No,  I  never,"  said  Jim.  "I  seen  the  signs,  but 
I  thought  they  said  'table  de  hole.'  I  thought  it 
was  French  for  pool  tables.     How  does  it  taste?" 

"If  you're  going  to  be  in  the  city  for  awhile  we 
will " 

"No,  sir-ee.  I'm  starting  for  home  this  evening  on 
the  7.25.     Like  to  stay  longer,  but  I  can't." 

"I'll  walk  down  to  the  ferry  with  you,"  said  the 
dogman. 

The  dog  had  bound  a  leg  each  of  Jim  and  the  chair 
together,  and  had  sunk  into  a  comatose  slumber. 
Jim  stumbled,  and  the  leash  was  slightly  wrenched. 
The  shrieks  of  the  awakened  beast  rang  for  a  block 
around. 

"If  that's  your  dog,"  said  Jim,  when  they  were  on 


70  Sixes  and  Sevens 

the  street  again,  "what's  to  hinder  you  from  run- 
ning that  habeas  corpus  you've  got  around  his  neck 
over  a  Hmb  and  walking  off  and  forgetting  him?" 

"I'd  never  dare  to,"  said  the  dogman,  awed  at 
the  bold  proposition,  "He  sleeps  in  the  bed.  I  sleep 
on  a  lounge.  He  runs  howling  to  Marcella  if  I  look 
at  him.  Some  night,  Jim,  I'm  going  to  get  even  with 
that  dog.  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  do  it.  I'm  go- 
ing to  creep  over  with  a  knife  and  cut  a  hole  in  his 
mosquito  bar  so  they  can  get  in  to  him.  See  if  I 
don't  do  it!" 

"You  ain't  yourself,  Sam  Telfair.  You  ain't  what 
you  was  once.  I  don't  know  about  these  cities  and 
flats  over  here.  With  my  own  eyes  I  seen  you  stand 
off  both  the  Tillotson  boys  in  Prairie  View  with  the 
brass  faucet  out  of  a  molasses  barrel.  And  I  seen 
you  rope  and  tie  the  wildest  steer  on  Little  Powder 
in  39  1-2." 

"I  did,  didn't  I.''"  said  the  other,  with  a  temporary 
gleam  in  his  feye.  "But  that  was  before  I  was  dog- 
matized." 

"Does    Misses    Telfair"  —  began    Jim. 

"Hush!"  said  the  dogman.     "Here's  another  cafe." 

They  lined  up  at  the  bar.  The  dog  fell  asleep  at 
their  feet. 

"Whiskey,"  said  Jim. 

"Make  it  two,"  said  the  dogman. 

"I  thought  about  you,"  said  Jim,  "when  I  bought 


Ulysses  and  the  Dogman  71 

that  wild  land.  I  wished  you  was  out  there  to  help 
me  with  the  stock." 

"Last  Tuesday,"  said  the  dogman,  "he  bit  me  on 
the  ankle  because  I  asked  for  cream  in  my  coffee. 
He  always  gets  the  cream." 

"You'd  like  Prairie  View  now,"  said  Jim.  "The 
boys  from  the  round-ups  for  fifty  miles  around  ride 
in  there.  One  corner  of  my  pasture  is  in  sixteen 
miles  of  the  town.  There's  a  straight  forty  miles 
of  wire  on  one  side  of  it." 

"You  pass  through  the  kitchen  to  get  to  the  bed- 
room," said  the  dogman,  "and  you  pass  through  the 
parlour  to  get  to  the  bath  room,  and  you  back  out 
through  the  dining-room  to  get  into  the  bedroom  so 
you  can  turn  around  and  leave  by  the  kitchen.  And 
he  snores  and  barks  in  his  sleep,  and  I  have  to  smoke 
in  the  park  on  account  of  his  asthma." 

"Don't  Missis  Telfair"  —  began  Jim. 

"Oh,  shut  up!"  said  the  dogman.  "What  is  it  this 
time?" 

"Whiskey,"  said  Jim. 

"Make  it  two,"  said  the  dogman. 

"Well,  I'll  be  racking  along  down  toward  the  ferry," 
said  the  other. 

"Come  on,  there,  you  mangy,  turtle-backed,  snake- 
headed,  bench-legged  ton-and-a-half  of  soap-grease!" 
shouted  the  dogman,  with  a  new  note  in  his  voice 
and  a  new  hand  on  the  leash.     The  dog  scrambled 


7!^  Sixes  and  Sevens 

after  them,  with  an  angry  whine  at  such  unusual 
language  from  his  guardian. 

At  the  foot  of  Twenty-third  Street  the  dogman  led 
the  way  through  swinging  doors. 

"Last  chance,"  said  he.     "Speak  up." 

"Whiskey,"  said  Jim. 

"Make  it  two,"  said  the  dogman. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  ranchman,  "where  I'll 
find  the  man  I  want  to  take  charge  of  the  Little 
Powder  outfit.  I  want  somebody  I  know  something 
about.  Finest  stretch  of  prairie  and  timber  you  ever 
squinted  your  eye  over,  Sam.     Now  if  you  was " 

"Speaking  of  hydrophobia,"  said  the  dogman,  "the 
other  night  he  chewed  a  piece  out  of  my  leg  because 
I  knocked  a  fly  off  of  Marcella's  arm.  'It  ought  to 
be  cauterized,'  says  Marcella,  and  I  was  thinking  so 
myself.  I  telephones  for  the  doctor,  and  when  he 
comes  Marcella  says  to  me:  'Help  me  hold  the  poor 
dear  while  the  doctor  fixes  his  mouth.  Oh,  I  hope  he 
got  no  virus  on  any  of  his  toofies  when  he  bit  you.' 
Now  what  do  you  think  of  that.''" 

"Does  Missis  Telfair"  —  began  Jim. 

"Oh,  drop  it,"  said  the  dogman.     "Come  again!" 

"Whiskey,"  said  Jim. 

"Make  it  two,"  said  the  dogman. 

They  walked  on  to  the  ferry.  The  ranchman 
stepped  to  the  ticket  window. 

Suddenly  the  swift  landing  of  three  or  four  heavy 


Ulysses  and  the  Dogman  73 

kicks  was  heard,  the  air  was  rent  by  piercing  canine 
shrieks,  and  a  pained,  outraged,  lubberly,  bow-legged 
pudding  of  a  dog  ran  frenziedly  up  the  street  alone. 

"Ticket  to  Denver,"  said  Jim. 

"Make  it  two,"  shouted  the  ex-dogman,  reaching 
for  his  inside  pocket. 


VII 

THE  CHAMPION  OF  THE  WEATHER 

IF  YOU  should  speak  of  the  Kiowa  Reservation 
to  the  average  New  Yorker  he  probably  wouldn't 
know  whether  you  were  referring  to  a  new  political 
dodge  at  Albany  or  a  leitmotif  from  "Parsifal."  But 
out  in  the  Kiowa  Reservation  advices  have  been  re- 
ceived concerning  the  existence  of  New  York. 

A  party  of  us  were  on  a  hunting  trip  in  the  Reser- 
vation. Bud  Kingsbury,  our  guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend,  was  broiling  antelope  steaks  in  camp  one  night. 
One  of  the  party,  a  pinkish-haired  young  man  in  a 
correct  hunting  costume,  sauntered  over  to  the  fire 
to  light  a  cigarette,  and  remarked  carelessly  to  Bud : 

"Nice  night!" 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Bud,  "as  nice  as  any  night  could  be 
that  ain't  received  the  Broadway  stamp  of  approval." 

Now,  the  young  man  was  from  New  York,  but  the 
rest  of  us  wondered  how  Bud  guessed  it.  So,  when  the 
steaks  were  done,  we  besought  him  to  lay  bare  his 
system  of  ratiocination.  And  as  Bud  was  something 
of  a  Territorial  talking  machine  he  made  oration  as 
follows: 

74 


The  Champion  of  the  Weather  75 

"How  did  I  know  he  was  from  New  York?  Well,  I 
figured  it  out  as  soon  as  he  sprung  them  two  words 
on  me.  I  was  in  New  York  myself  a  couple  of  years 
ago,  and  I  noticed  some  of  the  earmarks  and  hoof 
tracks  of  the  Rancho  Manhattan." 

"Found  New  York  rather  different  from  the  Pan- 
handle, didn't  you,  Bud.' "  asked  one  of  the  hunters. 

"Can't  say  that  I  did,"  answered  Bud;  "anyways, 
not  more  than  some.  The  main  trail  in  that  town 
which  they  call  Broadway  is  plenty  travelled,  but 
they're  about  the  same  brand  of  bipeds  that  tramp 
around  in  Cheyenne  and  Amarillo.  At  first  I  was 
sort  of  rattled  by  the  crowds,  but  I  soon  says  to  myself, 
'  Here,  now,  Bud;  they're  just  plain  folks  like  you  and 
Geronimo  and  Grover  Cleveland  and  the  Watson 
boys,  so  don't  get  all  flustered  up  with  consternation 
under  your  saddle  blanket,'  and  then  I  feels  calm 
and  peaceful,  like  I  was  back  in  the  Nation  again  at  a 
ghost  dance  or  a  green  corn  pow-wow. 

"  I'd  been  saving  up  for  a  year  to  give  this  New  York 
a  whirl.  I  knew  a  man  named  Summers  that  lived 
there,  but  I  couldn't  find  him;  so  I  played  a  lone 
hand  at  enjoying  the  intoxicating  pleasures  of  the 
corn-fed  metropolis. 

"For  a  while  I  was  so  frivolous  and  locoed  by  the 
electric  lights  and  the  noises  of  the  phonographs  and 
the  second-story  railroads  that  I  forgot  one  of  the 
crying  needs  of  my  Western  system  of  natural  require- 


76  Sixes  and  Sevens 

ments.  I  never  was  no  hand  to  deny  myself  the 
pleasures  of  sociable  vocal  intercourse  with  friends  and 
strangers.  Out  in  the  Territories  when  I  meet  a  man 
I  never  saw  before,  inside  of  nine  minutes  I  know 
his  income,  religion,  size  of  collar,  and  his  wife's 
temper,  and  how  much  he  pays  for  clothes,  alimony, 
and  chewing  tobacco.  It's  a  gift  with  me  not  to  be 
penurious  with  my  conversation, 

"But  this  here  New  York  was  inaugurated  on  the 
idea  of  abstemiousness  in  regard  to  the  parts  of  speech. 
At  the  end  of  three  weeks  nobody  in  the_city  had  fired 
even  a  blank  syllable  in  my  direction  except  the 
waiter  in  the  grub  emporium  where  I  fed.  And  as 
his  outpourings  of  syntax  wasn't  nothing  but  plagia- 
risms from  the  bill  of  fare,  he  never  satisfied  my  yearn- 
ings, which  was  to  have  somebody  hit.  If  I  stood 
next  to  a  man  at  a  bar  he'd  edge  off  and  give  a  Baldwin- 
Ziegler  look  as  if  he  suspected  me  of  having  the  North 
Pole  concealed  on  my  person.  I  began  to  wish  that 
I'd  gone  to  Abilene  or  Waco  for  my  paseado;  for 
the  mayor  of  them  places  will  drink  with  you,  and 
the  first  citizen  you  meet  will  tell  you  his  middle 
name  and  ask  you  to  take  a  chance  in  a  raffle  for  a 
music  box. 

"  Well,  one  day  when  I  was  particular  hankering  for 
to  be  gregarious  with  something  more  loquacious  than 
a  lamp  post,  a  fellow  in  a  caffy  says  to  me,  says  he: 

"'Nice  day!' 


The  Champion  of  the  IVeather  77 

"He  was  a  kind  of  a  manager  of  the  place,  and  I 
reckon  he'd  seen  me  in  there  a  good  many  times.  He 
had  a  face  like  a  fish  and  an  eye  like  Judas,  but  I  got 
up  and  put  one  arm  around  his  neck. 

"'Pardner,'  I  says,  'sure  it's  a  nice  day.  You're  the 
first  gentleman  in  all  New  York  to  observe  that  the 
intricacies  of  human  speech  might  not  be  altogether 
wasted  on  William  Kingsbury.  But  don't  you  think,' 
says  I,  'that  'twas  a  little  cool  early  in  the  morning; 
and  ain't  there  a  feeling  of  rain  in  the  air  to-night? 
But  along  about  noon  it  sure  was  gallupsious  weather. 
How's  all  up  to  the  house?  You  doing  right  well  with 
the  caffy,  now?' 

"  Well,  sir,  that  galoot  just  turns  his  back  and  walks 
off  stiff,  without  a  word,  after  all  my  trying  to  be 
agreeable!  I  didn't  know  what  to  make  of  it.  That 
night  I  finds  a  note  from  Summers,  who'd  been  away 
from  town,  giving  the  address  of  his  camp.  I  goes  up 
to  his  house  and  has  a  good,  old-time  talk  with  his 
folks.  And  I  tells  Summers  about  the  actions  of  this 
coyote  in  the  caffy,  and  desires  interpretation. 

*"0h,'  says  Summers,  'he  wasn't  intending  to  strike 
up  a  conversation  with  you.  That's  just  the  New 
York  style.  He'd  seen  you  was  a  regular  customer  and 
he  spoke  a  word  or  two  just  to  show  you  he  appreciated 
your  custom.  You  oughtn't  to  have  followed  it  up. 
That's  about  as  far  as  we  care  to  go  with  a  stranger. 
A  word  or  so  about  the  weather  may  be  ventured. 


78  Sixes  and  Sevens 

but  we  don't  generally  make  it  the  basis  of  an 
acquaintance.' 

"'Billy,'  says  I,  'the  weather  and  its  ramifications 
is  a  solemn  subject  with  me.  Meteorology  is  one  of 
my  *re  points.  No  man  can  open  up  the  question  of 
temperature  or  humidity  or  the  glad  sunshine  with 
me,  and  then  turn  tail  on  it  without  its  leading  to 
a  falling  barometer.  I'm  going  down  to  see  that  man 
again  and  give  him  a  lesson  in  the  art  of  continuous 
conversation.  You  say  New  York  etiquette  allows 
him  two  words  and  no  answer.  Well,  he's  going  to 
turn  himself  into  a  weather  bureau  and  finish  what 
he  begun  with  me,  besides  indulging  in  neighbourly 
remarks  on  other  subjects.' 

"Summers  talked  agin  it,  but  I  was  irritated  some 
and  I  went  on  the  street  car  back  to  that  caffy. 

"The  same  fellow  was  there  yet,  walking  round  in 
a  sort  of  back  corral  where  there  was  tables  and 
chairs.  A  few  people  was  sitting  around  having 
drinks  and  sneering  at  one  another. 

"I  called  that  man  to  one  side  and  herded  him  into 
a  comer.  I  unbuttoned  enough  to  show  him  a  thirty- 
eight  I  carried  stuck  under  my  vest. 

"'Pardner,'  I  says,  'a  brief  space  ago  I  was  in  here 
and  you  seized  the  opportunity  to  say  it  was  a  nice 
day.  When  I  attempted  to  corroborate  your  weather 
signal,  you  turned  your  back  and  walked  off.  Now/ 
says  I,  'you  frog-hearted,  language-shy,  stiff-necked 


The  Champion  of  the  Weather         79 

cross  between  a  Spitzbergen  sea  cook  and  a  muzzled 
oyster,  you  resume  where  you  left  off  in  your  discourse 
on  the  weather.' 

"The  fellow  looks  at  me  and  tries  to  grin,  but  he 
sees  I  don't  and  he  comes  around  serious. 

"'Well,'  says  he,  eyeing  the  handle  of  my  gun, 
*it  was  rather  a  nice  day;  some  warmish,  though.' 

"' Particulars,  you  mealy-mouthed  snoozer,'  I  says  — 
'let's  have  the  specifications  —  expatiate  —  fill  in  the 
outlines.  When  you  start  anything  with  me  in  short- 
hand it's  bound  to  turn  out  a  storm  signal.' 

"'Looked  like  rain  yesterday,'  says  the  man,  'but 
it  cleared  off  fine  in  the  forenoon.  I  hear  the  farmers 
are  needing  rain  right  badly  up-State.' 

"'That's  the  kind  of  a  canter,'  says  I.  'Shake  the 
New  York  dust  off  your  hoofs  and  be  a  real  agreeable 
kind  of  a  centaur.  You  broke  the  ice,  you  know, 
and  we're  getting  better  acquainted  every  minute. 
Seems  to  me  I  asked  you  about  your  family.'' ' 

"'They're  all  well,  thanks,'  says  he.  'We  —  we 
have  a  new  piano.' 

"  'Now  you're  coming  it,'  I  says.  'This  cold  reserve 
is  breaking  up  at  last.  That  little  touch  about  the 
piano  almost  makes  us  brothers.  What's  the  youngest 
kid's  name?'  I  asks  him. 

"'Thomas,'  says  he.  'He's  just  getting  well  from 
the  measles.' 

"'I  feel  like  I'd  known  you  always,'  says  I.     'Now 


80  Sixes  and  Sevens 

there  was  just  one  more  —  are  you  doing  right  well 
with  the  cafpy,  now? ' 

'"Pretty  well,'  he  says.  'I'm  putting  away  a  little 
money.' 

'"Glad  to  hear  it,'  says  I.  'Now  go  back  to  your 
work  and  get  civilized.  Keep  your  hands  off  the 
weather  unless  you're  ready  to  follow  it  up  in  a  per- 
sonal manner.  It's  a  subject  that  naturally  belongs 
to  sociability  and  the  forming  of  new  ties,  and  I  hate 
to  see  it  handed  out  in  small  change  in  a  town 
like  this.' 

"So  the  next  day  I  rolls  up  my  blankets  and  hits 
the  trail  away  from  New  York  City." 

For  many  minutes  after  Bud  ceased  talking  we 
lingered  around  the  fire,  and  then  all  hands  began  to 
disperse  for  bed. 

As  I  was  unrolling  my  bedding  I  heard  the  pinkish- 
haired  young  man  saying  to  Bud,  with  something  like 
anxiety  in  his  voice: 

"As  I  say,  Mr.  Kingsbury,  there  is  something  really 
beautiful  about  this  night.  The  delightful  breeze 
and  the  bright  stars  and  the  clear  air  unite  in  making 
it  wonderfully  attractive." 

"Yes,"  said  Bud,  "it's  a  nice  night." 


VIII 

MAKES  THE  WHOLE  WORLD  KIN 

1  HE  burglar  stepped  inside  the  window  quickly, 
and  then  he  took  his  time.  A  burglar  who  respects 
his  art  always  takes  his  time  before  taking  anything 
else. 

The  house  was  a  private  residence.  By  its  boarded 
front  door  and  untrimmed  Boston  ivy  the  burglar  knew 
that  the  mistress  of  it  was  sitting  on  some  ocean- 
side  piazza  telling  a  sympathetic  man  in  a  yachting 
cap  that  no  one  had  ever  understood  her  sensitive, 
lonely  heart.  He  knew  by  the  light  in  the  third- 
story  front  windows,  and  by  the  lateness  of  the  sea- 
son, that  the  master  of  the  house  had  come  home, 
and  would  soon  extinguish  his  light  and  retire.  For 
it  was  September  of  the  year  and  of  the  soul,  in  which 
season  the  house's  good  man  comes  to  consider  roof 
gardens  and  stenographers  as  vanities,  and  to  desire 
the  return  of  his  mate  and  the  more  durable  blessings 
of  decorum  and  the  moral  excellencies. 

The  burglar  lighted  a  cigarette.  The  guarded  glow 
of  the  match  illuminated  his  salient  points  for  a 
moment.     He  belonged  to  the  third  type  of  burglars. 

81 


82  Sixes  and  Sevens 

This  third  type  has  not  yet  been  recognized  and 
accepted.  The  pohce  have  made  us  familiar  with  the 
first  and  second.  Their  classification  is  simple.  The 
collar  is  the  distinguishing  mark. 

\Mien  a  burglar  is  caught  who  does  not  wear  a 
collar  he  is  described  as  a  degenerate  of  the  lowest 
type,  singularly  vicious  and  depraved,  and  is  suspected 
of  being  the  desperate  criminal  who  stole  the  hand- 
cuffs out  of  Patrolman  Hennessy's  pocket  in  1878 
and  walked  away  to  escape  arrest. 

The  other  well-known  type  is  the  burglar  who  wears 
a  collar.  He  is  always  referred  to  as  a  RaflSes  in 
real  life.  He  is  invariably  a  gentleman  by  daylight, 
breakfasting  in  a  dress  suit,  and  posing  as  a  paper- 
hanger,  while  after  dark  he  plies  his  nefarious  occu- 
pation of  burglary.  His  mother  is  an  extremely 
wealthy  and  respected  resident  of  Ocean  Grove,  and 
when  he  is  conducted  to  his  cell  he  asks  at  once  for 
a  nail  file  and  the  Police  Gazette.  He  always  has  a 
wife  in  every  State  in  the  Union  and  fiancees  in  all 
the  Territories,  and  the  newspapers  print  his  matri- 
monial gallery  out  of  their  stock  of  cuts  of  the  ladies 
who  were  cured  by  only  one  bottle  after  having  been 
given  up  by  five  doctors,  experiencing  great  relief 
after  the  first  dose. 

The  burglar  wore  a  blue  sweater.  He  was  neither 
a  Rafiles  nor  one  of  the  chefs  from  Hell's  Kitchen. 
The  pohce  would  have  been  baffled  had  they  attempted 


Makes  the  Whole  World  Kin  83 

to  classify  him.  They  have  not  yet  heard  of  the 
respectable,  unassuming  burglar  who  is  neither  above 
nor  below  his  station. 

This  burglar  of  the  third  class  began  to  prowl.  He 
wore  no  masks,  dark  lanterns,  or  gum  shoes.  He 
carried  a  38-calibre  revolver  in  his  pocket,  and  he 
chewed  peppermint  gum  thoughtfully. 

The  furniture  of  the  house  was  swathed  in  its  summer 
dust  protectors.  The  silver  was  far  away  in  safe- 
deposit  vaults.  The  burglar  expected  no  remarkable 
"haul."  His  objective  point  was  that  dimly  lighted 
room  where  the  master  of  the  house  should  be  sleep- 
ing heavily  after  whatever  solace  he  had  sought  to 
lighten  the  burden  of  his  loneliness.  A  "touch"  might 
be  made  there  to  the  extent  of  legitimate,  fair  pro- 
fessional profits  —  loose  money,  a  watch,  a  jewelled 
stick-pin  —  nothing  exorbitant  or  beyond  reason.  He 
had  seen  the  window  left  open  and  had  taken 
the  chance. 

The  burglar  softly  opened  the  door  of  the  lighted 
room.  The  gas  was  turned  low.  A  man  lay  in  the 
bed  asleep.  On  the  dresser  lay  many  things  in  con- 
fusion —  a  crumpled  roll  of  bills,  a  watch,  keys,  three 
poker  chips,  crushed  cigars,  a  pink  silk  hair  bow,  and 
an  unopened  bottle  of  brorao-seltzer  for  a  bulwark 
in  the  morning. 

The  burglar  took  three  steps  toward  the  dresser. 
The  man  in  the  bed  suddenly  uttered  a  squeaky  groan 


84  Sixes  and  Sevens 

and  opened  his  eyes.  His  right  hand  slid  under  his 
pillow,  but  remained  there. 

"Lay  still,"  said  the  burglar  in  conversational 
tone.  Burglars  of  the  third  type  do  not  hiss.  The 
citizen  in  the  bed  looked  at  the  round  end  of  the 
burglar's  pistol  and  lay  still. 

"Now  hold  up  both  your  hands,"  commanded  the 
burglar. 

The  citizen  had  a  little,  pointed,  brown-and-gray 
beard,  like  that  of  a  painless  dentist.  He  looked 
solid,  esteemed,  irritable,  and  disgusted.  He  sat  up 
in  bed  and  raised  his  right  hand  above  his  head. 

"Up  with  the  other  one,"  ordered  the  burglar. 
"You  might  be  amphibious  and  shoot  with  your  left. 
You  can  count  two,  can't  you?     Hurry  up,  now." 

"Can't  raise  the  other  one,"  said  the  citizen,  with 
a  contortion  of  his  lineaments. 

"What's  the  matter  with  it.?" 

"Rheumatism  in  the  shoulder." 

"  Inflammatory.'^ " 

"Was.     The  inflammation  has  gone  down." 

The  burglar  stood  for  a  moment  or  two,  holding  his 
gun  on  the  aSlicted  one.  He  glanced  at  the  plunder 
on  the  dresser  and  then,  with  a  half-embarrassed  air, 
back  at  the  man  in  the  bed.  Then  he,  too,  made  a 
sudden  grimace. 

"Don't  stand  there  making  faces,"  snapped  the 
citizen,  bad-humouredly.     "If  you've  come  to  burgle 


Makes  the  Whole  World  Kin  85 

why  don't  you  do  it?  There's  some  stuff  lying 
around." 

'"Scuse  me,"  said  the  burglar,  with  a  grin;  "but 
it  just  socked  me  one,  too.  It's  good  for  you  that 
rheumatism  and  me  happens  to  be  old  pals.  I  got  it 
in  my  left  arm,  too.  Most  anybody  but  me  would 
have  popped  you  when  you  wouldn't  hoist  that  left 
claw  of  yours." 

"How  long  have  you  had  it.-*"  inquired  the  citizen. 

"Four  years.  I  guess  that  ain't  all.  Once  you've  got 
it,  it's  you  for  a  rheumatic  life  —  that's  my  judgment." 

"Ever  try  rattlesnake  oil,?"  asked  the  citizen,  in- 
terestedly. 

"  Gallons,"  said  the  burglar.  "  If  all  the  snakes  I've 
used  the  oil  of  was  strung  out  in  a  row  they'd  reach 
eight  times  as  far  as  Saturn,  and  the  rattles  could 
be  heard  at  Valparaiso,  Indiana,  and  back," 

"Some  use  Chiselum's  Pills,"  remarked  the  citizen. 

"Fudge ! "  said  the  burglar.  "Took  'em  five  months. 
No  good.  I  had  some  relief  the  year  I  tried  Finkel- 
ham's  Extract,  Balm  of  Gilead  poultices  and  Potts's 
Pain  Pulverizer;  but  I  think  it  was  the  buckeye  I 
carried  in  my  pocket  what  done  the  trick." 

"Is  yours  worse  in  the  morning  or  at  night?"  asked 
the  citizen. 

"Night,"  said  the  burglar;  "just  when  I'm  busiest. 
Say,  take  down  that  arm  of  yours  —  I  guess  you  won't 
—  Say!  did  you  ever  try  Blickerstaff's  Blood  Builder? 


86  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"I  never  did.  Does  yours  come  in  paroxysms  or  is 
it  a  steady  pain?" 

The  burglar  sat  down  on  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
rested  his  gun  on  his  crossed  knee. 

"It  jumps,"  said  he.  "It  strikes  me  when  I  ain't 
looking  for  it.  I  had  to  give  up  second-story  work 
because  I  got  stuck  sometimes  half-way  up.  Tell  you 
what  —  I  don't  believe  the  bloomin'  doctors  know 
what  is  good  for  it." 

"Same  here.  I've  spent  a  thousand  dollars  without 
getting  any  relief.     Yours  swell  any?" 

"Of  mornings.  And  when  it's  goin'  to  rain  —  great 
Christopher!" 

"Me,  too,"  said  the  citizen.  "I  can  tell  when  a 
streak  of  humidity  the  size  of  a  table-cloth  starts 
from  Florida  on  its  way  to  New  York.  And  if  I 
pass  a  theatre  where  there's  an  'East  Lynne'  matinee 
going  on,  the  moisture  starts  my  left  arm  jumping 
like  a  toothache." 

"It's  undiluted  —  hades!"  said  the  burglar. 

"You're  dead  right,"  said  the  citizen. 

The  burglar  looked  down  at  his  pistol  and  thrust 
it  into  his  pocket  with  an  awkward  attempt  at  ease. 

"Say,  old  man,"  he  said,  constrainedly,  "ever  try 
opodeldoc?" 

"Slop!"  said  the  citizen  angrily.  "Might  as  well 
rub  on  restaurant  butter." 

"Sure,"  concurred  the  burglar.    "It's  a  salve  suitable 


Makes  the  Whole  World  Kin  87 

for  little  Minnie  when  the  kitty  scratches  her 
finger,  I'll  tell  you  what!  We're  up  against  it.  I 
only  find  one  thing  that  eases  her  up.  Hey?  Little 
old  sanitary,  ameliorating,  lest-we-forget  Booze.  Say 
—  this  job's  off  —  'scuse  me  —  get  on  your  clothes  and 
let's  go  out  and  have  some.  'Scuse  the  liberty,  but  — 
ouch!     There  she  goes  again!" 

"For  a  week,"  said  the  citizen.  "  I  haven't  been  able 
to  dress  myself  without  help.  I'm  afraid  Thomas  is 
in  bed,  and " 

"Climb  out,"  said  the  burglar,  "I'll  help  you  get 
into  your  duds." 

The  conventional  returned  as  a  tidal  wave  and 
flooded  the  citizen.  He  stroked  his  brown-and-gray 
beard. 

"It's  very  unusual"  —  he  began. 

"Here's  your  shirt,"  said  the  burglar,  "fall  out.  I 
knew  a  man  who  said  Omberry's  Ointment  fixed  him 
in  two  weeks  so  he  could  use  both  hands  in  tying  his 
four-in-hand." 

As  they  were  going  out  the  door  the  citizen  turned 
and  started  back. 

"  'Liked  to  forgot  my  money,"  he  explained;  "laid 
it  on  the  dresser  last  night." 

The  burglar  caught  him  by  the  right  sleeve. 

"Come  on,"  he  said  bluflOiy.  "I  ask  you.  Leave  it 
alone.  I've  got  the  price.  Ever  try  witch  hazel 
and  oil  of  wintergreen?" 


IX 

AT  ARMS  WITH  MORPHEUS 

1  NEVER  could  quite  understand  how  Tom  Hopkins 
came  to  make  that  blunder,  for  he  had  been  through 
a  whole  term  at  a  medical  college  —  before  he  inherited 
his  aunt's  fortune  —  and  had  been  considered  strong 
in  therapeutics. 

We  had  been  making  a  call  together  that  evening, 
and  afterward  Tom  ran  up  to  my  rooms  for  a  pipe 
and  a  chat  before  going  on  to  his  own  luxurious  apart- 
ments. I  had  stepped  into  the  other  room  for  a 
moment  when  I  heard  Tom  sing  out : 

"Oh,  Billy,  I'm  going  to  take  about  four  grains  of 
quinine,  if  you  don't  mind  —  I'm  feeling  all  blue  and 
shivery.     Guess  I'm  taking  cold." 

"All  right,"  I  called  back.  "The  bottle  is  on  the 
second  shelf.  Take  it  in  a  spoonful  of  that  elixir 
of  eucalyptus.     It  knocks  the  bitter  out." 

After  I  came  back  we  sat  by  the  fire  and  got  our 
briars  going.  In  about  eight  minutes  Tom  sank  back 
into  a  gentle  collapse. 

I  went  straight  to  the  medicine  cabinet  and 
looked. 

88 


At  Arms  with  Morpheus  89 

"You  unmitigated  hayseed!"  I  growled.  "See 
what  money  will  do  for  a  man's  brains ! " 

There  stood  the  morphine  bottle  with  the  stopple 
out,  just  as  Tom  had  left  it. 

I  routed  out  another  young  M.D.  who  roomed  on  the 
floor  above,  and  sent  him  for  old  Doctor  Gales,  two 
squares  away.  Tom  Hopkins  has  too  much  money 
to  be  attended  by  rising  young  practitioners  alone. 

When  Gales  came  we  put  Tom  through  as  expensive 
a  course  of  treatment  as  the  resources  of  the  profession 
permit.  After  the  more  drastic  remedies  we  gave  him 
citrate  of  caffeine  in  frequent  doses  and  strong  coffee, 
and  walked  him  up  and  down  the  floor  between  two  of 
us.  Old  Gales  pinched  him  and  slapped  his  face  and 
worked  hard  for  the  big  check  he  could  see  in  the 
distance.  The  young  M.D.  from  the  next  floor 
gave  Tom  a  most  hearty,  rousing  kick,  and  then 
apologized  to  me. 

"Couldn't  help  it,"  he  said.  "I  never  kicked  a 
millionaire  before  in  my  life.  I  may  never  have 
another  opportunity." 

"Now,"  said  Doctor  Gales,  after  a  couple  of  hours, 
"he'll  do.  But  keep  him  awake  for  another  hour. 
You  can  do  that  by  talking  to  him  and  shaking  him 
up  occasionally.  When  his  pulse  and  respiration 
are  normal  then  let  him  sleep.  I'll  leave  him  with 
you  now." 

I  was  left  alone  with  Tom,  whom  we  had  laid  on  a 


90  Sixes  and  Sevens 

couch.     He  lay  very  still,  and  his  eyes  were  half  closed. 
I  began  my  work  of  keeping  him  awake. 

"Well,  old  man,"  I  said,  "you've  had  a  narrow 
squeak,  but  we've  pulled  you  through.  WTien  you 
were  attending  lectures,  Tom,  didn't  any  of  the  pro- 
fessors ever  casually  remark  that  m-o-r-p-h-i-a  never 
spells  'quinia,'  especially  in  four-grain  doses.''  But  I 
won't  pile  it  up  on  you  until  you  get  on  your  feet. 
But  you  ought  to  have  been  a  druggist,  Tom;  you're 
splendidly  qualified  to  fill  prescriptions." 

Tom  looked  at  me  with  a  faint  and  foolish  smile. 
"B'ly,"  he  murmured,  "I  feel  jus'  like  a  hum'n 
bird  flyin'  around  a  jolly  lot  of  most  'shpensive  roses. 
Don'  bozzer  me.     Goin'  sleep  now." 

And  he  went  to  sleep  in  two  seconds.  I  shook  him 
by  the  shoulder. 

"Now,  Tom,"  I  said,  severely,  "this  won't  do.  The 
big  doctor  said  you  must  stay  awake  for  at  least  an 
hour.  Open  your  eyes.  You're  not  entirely  safe  yet, 
you  know.     Wake  up." 

Tom  Hopkins  weighs  one  hundred  and  ninety-eight. 
He  gave  me  another  somnolent  grin,  and  fell  into 
deeper  slumber.  I  would  have  made  him  move  about, 
but  I  might  as  well  have  tried  to  make  Cleopatra's 
needle  waltz  around  the  room  with  me.  Tom's 
breathing  became  stertorous,  and  that,  in  connection 
with  morphia  poisoning,  means  danger. 

Then  I  began  to  think.     I  could  not  rouse  his  body; 


At  Arms  with  Morpheus  91 

I  must  strive  to  excite  his  mind.  "  Make  him  angry," 
was  an  idea  that  suggested  itself.  "Good!"  I 
thought;  but  \iov7?  There  was  not  a  joint  in 
Tom's  armour.  Dear  old  fellow!  He  was  good 
nature  itself,  and  a  gallant  gentleman,  fine  and  true 
and  clean  as  sunlight.  He  came  from  somewhere 
down  South,  where  they  still  have  ideals  and  a  code. 
New  York  had  charmed,  but  had  not  spoiled,  him. 
He  had  that  old-fashioned,  chivalrous  reverence  for 
women,  that  —  Eureka !  —  there  was  my  idea !  I 
worked  the  thing  up  for  a  minute  or  two  in  my  imagi- 
nation. I  chuckled  to  myself  at  the  thought  of  spring- 
ing a  thing  like  that  on  old  Tom  Hopkins.  Then  I 
took  him  by  the  shoulder  and  shook  him  till  his  ears 
flopped.  He  opened  his  eyes  lazily.  I  assumed  an 
expression  of  scorn  and  contempt,  and  pointed  my 
finger  within  two  inches  of  his  nose. 

"Listen  to  me,  Hopkins,"  I  said,  in  cutting  and 
distinct  tones,  "you  and  I  have  been  good  friends,  but 
I  want  you  to  understand  that  in  the  future  my  doors 
are  closed  against  any  man  who  acts  as  much  like  a 
scoundrel  as  you  have." 

Tom  looked  the  least  bit  interested. 

"What's  the  matter,  Billy.'*"  he  muttered,  com- 
posedly.   "Don't  your  clothes  fit  you? " 

"If  I  were  in  your  place,"  I  went  on,  "which,  thank 
God,  I  am  not,  I  think  I  would  be  afraid  to  close  my 
eyes.     How  about  that  girl  you  left  waiting  for  you 


92  Sixes  and  Sevens 

down  among  those  lonesome  Southern  pines  —  the 
girl  that  you've  forgotten  since  you  came  into  your 
confounded  money?  Oh,  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.  While  you  were  a  poor  medical  student  she 
was  good  enough  for  you.  But  now,  since  you  are  a 
millionaire,  it's  different.  I  wonder  what  she  thinks 
of  the  performances  of  that  peculiar  class  of  people 
which  she  has  been  taught  to  worship  —  the  Southern 
gentlemen.'*  I'm  sorry,  Hopkins,  that  I  was  forced 
to  speak  about  these  matters,  but  you've  covered  it 
up  so  well  and  played  your  part  so  nicely  that  I  would 
have  sworn  you  were  above   such  unmanly  tricks." 

Poor  Tom.  I  could  scarcely  keep  from  laughing 
outright  to  see  him  struggling  against  the  effects  of 
the  opiate.  He  was  distinctly  angry,  and  I  didn't 
blame  him.  Tom  had  a  Southern  temper.  His 
eyes  were  open  now,  and  they  showed  a  gleam  or  two 
of  fire.  But  the  drug  still  clouded  his  mind  and  bound 
his  tongue. 

" C-c-conf ound  you,"  he  stammered,  "I'll  s-smash 

you." 

He  tried  to  rise  from  the  couch.  With  all  his  size 
he  was  very  weak  now.  I  thrust  him  back  with  one 
arm.     He  lay  there  glaring  like  a  lion  in  a  trap. 

"That  wall  hold  you  for  a  while,  you  old  loony," 
I  said  to  myself.  I  got  up  and  lit  my  pipe,  for  I  was 
needing  a  smoke.  I  walked  around  a  bit,  congratu- 
lating myself  on  my  brilliant  idea. 


At  Arms  with  Morpheus  93 

I  heard  a  snore.  I  looked  around.  Tom  was  asleep 
again.  I  walked  over  and  punched  him  on  the  jaw. 
He  looked  at  me  as  pleasant  and  ungrudging  as  an 
idiot.     I  chewed  my  pipe  and  gave  it  to  him  hard. 

"I  want  you  to  recover  yourself  and  get  out  of  my 
rooms  as  soon  as  you  can,"  I  said,  insultingly.  "I've 
told  you  what  I  think  of  you.  If  you  have  any  honour 
or  honesty  left  you  will  think  twice  before  you  at- 
tempt again  to  associate  with  gentlemen.  She's  a 
poor  girl,  isn't  she?"  I  sneered.  "Somewhat  too  plain 
and  unfashionable  for  us  since  we  got  our  money.  Be 
ashamed  to  walk  on  Fifth  Avenue  with  her,  wouldn't 
you.?  Hopkins,  you're  forty-seven  times  worse  than 
a  cad.  Who  cares  for  your  money?  I  don't.  I'll 
bet  that  girl  don't.  Perhaps  if  you  didn't  have  it 
you'd  be  more  of  a  man.  As  it  is  you've  made  a  cur 
of  yourself,  and"  —  I  thought  that  quite  dramatic  — 
"perhaps  broken  a  faithful  heart,"  (Old  Tom  Hop- 
kins breaking  a  faithful  heart!)  "Let  me  be  rid  of 
you  as  soon  as   possible." 

I  turned  my  back  on  Tom,  and  winked  at  myself  in 
a  mirror.  I  heard  him  moving,  and  I  turned  again 
quickly.  I  didn't  want  a  hundred  and  ninety-eight 
pounds  falling  on  me  from  the  rear.  But  Tom  had 
only  turned  partly  over,  and  laid  one  arm  across  his 
face.  He  spoke  a  few  words  rather  more  distinctly 
than  before. 

"  I  couldn't  have  —  talked  this  way  —  to  you,  Billy, 


94  Sixes  and  Sevens 

even  if  I'd  heard  people  —  lyin'  'bout  you.     But  jus* 
soon's   I   can   s-stand   up  —  I'll  break  your   neck  — 
don'  f  get  it." 

I  did  feel  a  little  ashamed  then.  But  it  was  to  save 
Tom.  In  the  morning,  when  I  explained  it,  we  would 
have  a  good  laugh  over  it  together. 

In  about  twenty  minutes  Tom  dropped  into  a  sound, 
easy  slumber,  I  felt  his  pulse,  listened  to  his  respira- 
tion, and  let  him  sleep.  Everything  was  normal,  and 
Tom  was  safe,  I  went  into  the  other  room  and 
timibled  into  bed. 

I  found  Tom  up  and  dressed  when  I  awoke  the  next 
morning.  He  was  entirely  himself  again  with  the  excep- 
tion of  shaky  nerves  and  a  tongue  like  a  white-oak  chip, 

"What  an  idiot  I  was,"  he  said,  thoughtfully.  "I 
remember  thinking  that  quinine  bottle  looked  queer 
while  I  was  taking  the  dose.  Have  much  trouble 
in  bringing  me  'round?" 

I  told  him  no.  His  memory  seemed  bad  about  the 
entire  affair,  I  concluded  that  he  had  no  recollection 
of  my  efforts  to  keep  him  awake,  and  decided  not  to 
enlighten  him.  Some  other  time,  I  thought,  when  he 
was  feeling  better,  we  would  have  some  fun  over  it. 

When  Tom  was  ready  to  go  he  stopped,  with  the 
door  open,  and  shook  my  hand. 

"Much  obliged, old  fellow,"  he  said, quietly,"  for  tak- 
ing so  much  trouble  with  me  —  and  for  what  you  said, 
I'm  going  down  now  to  telegraph  to  the  little  girl," 


X 

A  GHOST  OF  A  CHANCE 

"Actually,   a  hod!"  repeated  Mrs.   Kinsolving, 
pathetically. 

Mrs.  Bellamy  Bellmore  arched  a  sympathetic 
eyebrow.  Thus  she  expressed  condolence  and  a 
generous   amount   of   apparent   surprise. 

"Fancy  her  telling  everywhere,"  recapitulated  Mrs. 
Kinsolving,  "that  she  saw  a  ghost  in  the  apartment 
she  occupied  here  —  our  choicest  guest-room  —  a 
ghost,  carrying  a  hod  on  its  shoulder  —  the  ghost  of 
an  old  man  in  overalls,  smoking  a  pipe  and  carrying 
a  hod!  The  very  absurdity  of  the  thing  shows  her 
malicious  intent.  There  never  was  a  Kinsolving  that 
carried  a  hod.  Every  one  knows  that  Mr.  Kinsolving' s 
father  accumulated  his  money  by  large  building  con- 
tracts, but  he  never  worked  a  day  with  his  own  hands. 
He  had  this  house  built  from  his  own  plans;  but  — • 
oh,  a  hod!  Why  need  she  have  been  so  cruel 
and  malicious.''" 

"It  is  really  too  bad,"  murmured  Mrs.  Bellmore, 
with  an  approving  glance  of  her  fine  eyes  about  the 
vast  chamber  done  in  lilac  and  old  gold.     "And  it 

95 


96  Sixes  and  Sevens 

was  in  this  room  she  saw  it !  Oh,  no,  I'm  not  afraid 
of  ghosts.  Don't  have  the  least  fear  on  my  account. 
I'm  glad  you  put  me  in  here.  I  think  family  ghosts 
so  interesting !  But,  really,  the  story  does  sound  a  little 
inconsistent.  I  should  have  expected  something  better 
from  Mrs.  Fischer-Suympkins.  Don't  they  carry 
bricks  in  hods?  Why  should  a  ghost  bring  bricks  into 
a  villa  built  of  marble  and  stone?  I'm  so  sorry,  but 
it  makes  me  think  that  age  is  beginning  to  tell  upon 
Mrs.  Fischer-Suympkins." 

"This  house,"  continued  Mrs.  Ejnsolving,  "was 
built  upon  the  site  of  an  old  one  used  by  the  family 
during  the  Revolution.  There  wouldn't  be  anything 
strange  in  its  having  a  ghost.  And  there  was  a  Captain 
Kinsolving  who  fought  in  General  Greene's  army, 
though  we've  never  been  able  to  secure  any  papers  to 
vouch  for  it.  If  there  is  to  be  a  family  ghost,  why 
couldn't  it  have  been  his,  instead  of  a  bricklayer's?" 

"The  ghost  of  a  Revolutionary  ancestor  wouldn't 
be  a  bad  idea,"  agreed  Mrs.  Bellmore;  "but  you  know 
how  arbitrary  and  inconsiderate  ghosts  can  be.  May- 
be, like  love,  they  are  'engendered  in  the  eye.'  One 
advantage  of  those  who  see  ghosts  is  that  their  stories 
can't  be  disproved.  By  a  spiteful  eye,  a  Revolu- 
tionary knapsack  might  easily  be  construed  to  be  a  hod. 
Dear  Mrs.  Kinsolving,  think  no  more  of  it.  I  am  sure 
it  was  a  knapsack." 

"But  she  told  everybody!"  mourned  Mrs.     Kin- 


A  Ghost  of  a  Chance  97 

solving,  inconsolable.  "She  insisted  upon  the  details. 
There  is  the  pipe.  And  how  are  you  going  to  get  out 
of  the  overalls.''" 

"Shan't  get  into  them,"  said  Mrs.  Bellmore,  with 
a  prettily  suppressed  yawn;  "too  stiff  and  wrinkly. 
Is  that  you,  Felice .?*  Prepare  my  bath,  please.  Do 
you  dine  at  seven  at  Cliff  top,  Mrs.  Kinsolving? 
So  kind  of  you  to  run  in  for  a  chat  before  dinner!  I 
love  those  little  touches  of  informality  with  a  guest. 
They  give  such  a  home  flavour  to  a  visit.  So  sorry; 
I  must  be  dressing.  I  am  so  indolent  I  always  post- 
pone it  until  the  last  moment." 

Mrs.  Fischer-Suympkins  had  been  the  first  large 
plum  that  the  Kinsolvings  had  drawn  from  the  social 
pie.  For  a  long  time,  the  pie  itself  had  been  out  of 
reach  on  a  top  shelf.  But  the  purse  and  the  pursuit 
had  at  last  lowered  it.  Mrs.  Fischer-Suympkins 
was  the  heliograph  of  the  smart  society  parading  corps. 
The  glitter  of  her  wit  and  actions  passed  along  the 
line,  transmitting  whatever  was  latest  and  most  daring 
in  the  game  of  peep-show.  Formerly,  her  fame  and 
leadership  had  been  secure  enough  not  to  need  the 
support  of  such  artifices  as  handing  around  live  frogs 
for  favours  at  a  cotillon.  But,  now,  these  things  were 
necessary  to  the  holding  of  her  throne.  Beside, 
middle  age  had  come  to  preside,  incongruous,  at  her 
capers.  The  sensational  papers  had  cut  her  space 
from  a  page  to  two  columns.     Her  wit  developed 


98  Sixes  and  Sevens 

a  sting;  her  manners  became  more  rough  and  incon- 
siderate, as  if  she  felt  the  royal  necessity  of  estab- 
lishing her  autocracy  by  scorning  the  conventionalities 
that  bound  lesser  potentates. 

To  some  pressure  at  the  command  of  the  Kin- 
solvings,  she  had  yielded  so  far  as  to  honour  their  house 
by  her  presence,  for  an  evening  and  night.  She  had 
her  revenge  upon  her  hostess  by  relating,  with  grim 
enjoyment  and  sarcastic  humour,  her  story  of  the 
vision  carrying  the  hod.  To  that  lady,  in  raptures 
at  having  penetrated  thus  far  toward  the  coveted  inner 
circle,  the  result  came  as  a  crushing  disappointment. 
Everybody  either  sympathized  or  laughed,  and  there 
was  little  to  choose  between  the  two  modes  of 
expression. 

But,  later  on,  Mrs.  Kinsolving's  hopes  and  spirits 
were  revived  by  the  capture  of  a  second  and  greater 
prize. 

Mrs.  Bellamy  Bellmore  had  accepted  an  invitation 
to  visit  at  ClifiPtop,  and  would  remain  for  three  days. 
Mrs.  Bellmore  was  one  of  the  younger  matrons,  whose 
beauty,  descent,  and  wealth  gave  her  a  reserved  seat 
in  the  holy  of  holies  that  required  no  strenuous  bolster- 
ing. She  was  generous  enough  thus  to  give  Mrs. 
Kinsolving  the  accolade  that  was  so  poignantly 
desired;  and,  at  the  same  time,  she  thought  how  much 
it  would  please  Terence.  Perhaps  it  would  end  by 
solving  him. 


A  Ghost  of  a  Chance  99 

Terence  was  Mrs.  Kinsolving's  son,  aged  twenty- 
nine,  quite  good-looking  enough,  and  with  two  or 
three  attractive  and  mysterious  traits.  For  one, 
he  was  very  devoted  to  his  mother,  and  that  was 
sufficiently  odd  to  deserve  notice.  For  others,  he 
talked  so  little  that  it  was  irritating,  and  he  seemed 
either  very  shy  or  very  deep.  Terence  interested  Mrs. 
Bellmore,  because  she  was  not  sure  which  it  was. 
She  intended  to  study  him  a  little  longer,  unless  she 
forgot  the  matter.  If  he  was  only  shy,  she  would 
abandon  him,  for  shyness  is  a  bore.  If  he  was  deep, 
she  would  also  abandon  him,  for  depth  is  precarious. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  of  her  visit, 
Terence  hunted  up  Mrs.  Bellmore,  and  found  her  in  a 
nook  actually  looking  at  an  album. 

"It's  so  good  of  you,"  said  he," to  come  down  here 
and  retrieve  the  day  for  us.  I  suppose  you  have  heard 
that  Mrs.  Fischer-Suympkins  scuttled  the  ship  before 
she  left.  She  knocked  a  whole  plank  out  of  the  bottom 
with  a  hod.  My  mother  is  grieving  herself  ill  about 
it.  Can't  you  manage  to  see  a  ghost  for  us  while  you 
are  here,  Mrs.  Bellmore  —  a  bang-up,  swell  ghost, 
with  a  coronet  on  his  head  and  a  cheque  book  under 
his  arm.'" 

"That  was  a  naughty  old  lady,  Terence,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellmore,  "to  tell  such  stories.  Perhaps  you  gave  her 
too  much  supper.  Your  mother  doesn't  really  take 
it  seriously,  does  she.''" 


100  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"I  think  she  does,"  answered  Terence.  "One 
would  think  every  brick  in  the  hod  had  dropped  on 
her.  It's  a  good  mammy,  and  I  don't  like  to  see  her 
worried.  It's  to  be  hoped  that  the  ghost  belongs 
to  the  hod-carriers'  union,  and  will  go  out  on  a 
strike.  If  he  doesn't,  there  will  be  no  peace  in  this 
family." 

"I'm  sleeping  in  the  ghost-chamber,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellmore,  pensively.  "But  it's  so  nice  I  wouldn't 
change  it,  even  if  I  were  afraid,  which  I'm  not.  It 
wouldn't  do  for  me  to  submit  a  counter  story  of  a 
desirable,  aristocratic  shade,  would  it.'*  I  would  do 
so,  with  pleasure,  but  it  seems  to  me  it  would  be  too 
obviously  an  antidote  for  the  other  narrative  to  be 
effective." 

"True,"  said  Terence,  running  two  fingers  thought- 
fully into  his  crisp,  brown  hair;  "that  would  never  do. 
How  would  it  work  to  see  the  same  ghost  again,  minus 
the  overalls,  and  have  gold  bricks  in  the  hod?  That 
would  elevate  the  spectre  from  degrading  toil  to  a 
financial  plane.  Don't  you  think  that  would  be  re- 
spectable enough.'' " 

"There  was  an  ancestor  who  fought  against  the 
Britishers,  wasn't  there.?  Your  mother  said  some- 
thing to  that  effect." 

"I  believe  so;  one  of  those  old  chaps  in  raglan  vests 
and  golf  trousers.  I  don't  care  a  continental  for  a 
Continental,  myself.    But    the   mother   has   set   her 


A  Ghost  of  a  Chance  101 

heart  on  pomp  and  heraldry  and  pyrotechnics,  and 
I  want  her  to  be  happy." 

"You  are  a  good  boy,  Terence,"  said  Mrs.  Bellmore, 
sweeping  her  silks  close  to  one  side  of  her,  "not  to 
beat  your  mother.  Sit  here  by  me,  and  let's  look  at 
the  album,  just  as  people  used  to  do  twenty  years 
ago.  Now,  tell  me  about  every  one  of  them.  Who 
is  this  tall,  dignified  gentleman  leaning  against  the 
horizon,  with  one  arm  on  the  Corinthian  column?" 

"That  old  chap  with  the  big  feet.'' "  inquired  Terence, 
craning  his  neck.  "That's  great-uncle  O'Brannigan. 
He  used  to  keep  a  rathskeller  on  the  Bowery." 

"I  asked  you  to  sit  down,  Terence.  If  you  are  not 
going  to  amuse,  or  obey,  me,  I  shall  report  in  the 
morning  that  I  saw  a  ghost  wearing  an  apron  and 
carrying  schooners  of  beer.  Now,  that  is  better.  To 
be  shy,  at  your  age,  Terence,  is  a  thing  that  you  should 
blush  to  acknowledge." 

At  breakfast  on  the  last  morning  of  her  visit,  Mrs. 
Bellmore  startled  and  entranced  every  one  present 
by  announcing  positively  that  she  had  seen  the  ghost. 

"Did  it  have  a  —  a  —  a — ?"  Mrs.  Kinsolving, 
in  her  suspense  and  agitation,  could  not  bring  out  the 
word. 

"No,  indeed  —  far  from  it." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  questions  from  others  at  the 
table.     "Weren't  you  frightened.?"     "What    did   it 


102  Sixes  and  Sevens   ■ 

do?"  "How  did  it  look?"  "How  was  it  dressed?" 
"Did  it  say  anything?"     "Didn't  you  scream?" 

"I'll  try  to  answer  everything  at  once,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellmore,  heroically,  "although  I'm  frightfully  hungry. 
Something  awakened  me  —  I'm  not  sure  whether 
it  was  a  noise  or  a  touch  —  and  there  stood  the  phan- 
tom. I  never  burn  a  light  at  night,  so  the  room  was 
quite  dark,  but  I  saw  it  plainly.  I  wasn't  dreaming. 
It  was  a  tall  man,  all  misty  white  from  head  to  foot. 
It  wore  the  full  dress  of  the  old  Colonial  days  — 
powdered  hair,  baggy  coat  skirts,  lace  ruffles,  and  a 
sword.  It  looked  intangible  and  luminous  in  the  dark, 
and  moved  without  a  sound.  Yes,  I  was  a  little 
frightened  at  first  —  or  startled,  I  should  say.  It 
was  the  first  ghost  I  had  ever  seen.  No,  it  didn't  say 
anything.  I  didn't  scream.  I  raised  up  on  my  elbow, 
and  then  it  glided  silently  away,  and  disappeared 
when  it  reached  the  door." 

Mrs.  Kinsolving  was  in  the  seventh  heaven.  "The 
description  is  that  of  Captain  Kinsolving,  of  General 
Greene's  army,  one  of  our  ancestors,"  she  said,  in  a 
voice  that  trembled  with  pride  and  relief.  "I  really 
think  I  must  apologize  for  our  ghostly  relative,  Mrs. 
Bellmore.  I  am  afraid  he  must  have  badly  disturbed 
your  rest." 

Terence  sent  a  smile  of  pleased  congratulation  toward 
his  mother.  Attainment  was  Mrs.  Kinsolving's, 
at  last,  and  he  loved  to  see  her  happy. 


A  Ghost  of  a  Chance  103 

"I  suppose  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  confess,"  said 
Mrs.  Bellmore,  who  was  now  enjoying  her  breakfast, 
"that  I  wasn't  very  much  disturbed.  I  presume  it 
would  have  been  the  customary  thing  to  scream  and 
faint,  and  have  all  of  you  running  about  in  picturesque 
costumes.  But,  after  the  first  alarm  was  over,  I 
really  couldn't  work  myself  up  to  a  panic.  The  ghost 
retired  from  the  stage  quietly  and  peacefully,  after 
doing  its  little  turn,  and  I  went  to  sleep  again." 

Nearly  all  listened,  politely  accepted  Mrs.  Bellmore's 
story  as  a  made-up  affair,  charitably  offered  as  an 
offset  to  the  unkind  vision  seen  by  Mrs.  Fischer- 
Suympkins.  But  one  or  two  present  perceived  that 
her  assertions  bore  the  genuine  stamp  of  her  own 
convictions.  Truth  and  candour  seemed  to  attend 
upon  every  word.  Even  a  scoffer  at  ghosts  —  if 
he  were  very  obser\  ant  —  would  have  been  forced 
to  admit  that  she  had,  at  least  in  a  very  vivid  dream, 
been  honestly  aware  of  the  weird  visitor. 

Soon  Mrs.  Bellmore's  maid  was  packing.  In  two 
hours  the  auto  would  come  to  convey  her  to  the 
station.  As  Terence  was  strolling  upon  the  east 
piazza,  Mrs.  Bellmore  came  up  to  him,  with  a  con- 
fidential sparkle  in  her  eye. 

"I  didn't  wish  to  tell  the  others  all  of  it,"  she  said, 
"but  I  will  tell  you.  In  a  way,  I  think  you  should 
be  held  responsible.  Can  you  guess  in  what  manner 
that  ghost  awakened  me  last  night?" 


104  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"Rattled  chains,"  suggested  Terence,  after  some 
thought,  "or  groaned?  They  usually  do  one  or  the 
other." 

"Do  you  happen  to  know,"  continued  INIrs.  Bell- 
more,  wath  sudden  irrelevancy,  "if  I  resemble  any  one 
of  the  female  relatives  of  your  restless  ancestor. 
Captain  Kinsolving?" 

"Don't  think  so,"  said  Terence,  with  an  extremely 
puzzled  air.  "Never  heard  of  any  of  them  being 
noted  beauties." 

"Then,  why,"  said  Mrs.  Bellmore,  looking  the 
young  man  gravely  in  the  eye,  "should  that  ghost 
have  kissed  me,  as  I'm  sure  it  did?" 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  Terence,  in  wide-eyed  amaze- 
ment; "you  don't  mean  that,  Mrs.  Bellmore!  Did 
he  actually  kiss  you?" 

"I  said  z7,"  corrected  Mrs.  Bellmore.  "I  hope  the 
impersonal  pronoun  is  correctly  used." 

"But  why  did  you  saj'  I  was  responsible?" 

"Because  you  are  the  only  living  male  relative  of 
the  ghost." 

"I  see.  'Unto  the  third  and  fourth  generation.* 
But,  seriously,  did  he  —  did  it  —  how  do  you ?" 

"Know?  How  does  any  one  know?  I  was  asleep, 
and  that  is  what  awakened  me,  I'm  almost  certain." 

"Almost?" 

"Well,  I  awoke  just  as  —  oh,  can't  you  understand 
what  I  mean?     When  anything  arouses  you  suddenly. 


A  Ghost  of  a  Chance  105 

you  are  not  positive  whether  you  dreamed,  or  —  and 
yet  you  know  that  —  Dear  me,  Terence,  must  I 
dissect  the  most  elementary  sensations  in  order  to 
accommodate  your  extremely  practical  intelligence?" 

"But,  about  kissing  ghosts,  you  know,"  said  Terence, 
humbly,  "I  require  the  most  primary  instruction. 
I  never  kissed  a  ghost.     Is  it  —  is  it ?  " 

"The  sensation,"  said  Mrs.  Bellmore,  with  deliber- 
ate, but  slightly  smiling,  emphasis,  "since  you  are 
seeking  instruction,  is  a  mingling  of  the  material  and 
the  spiritual." 

"Of  course,"  said  Terence,  suddenly  growing  serious, 
'*it  was  a  dream  or  some  kind  of  an  hallucination. 
Nobody  believes  in  spirits,  these  days.  If  you  told 
the  tale  out  of  kindness  of  heart,  Mrs.  Bellmore,  I 
can't  express  how  grateful  I  am  to  you.  It  has  made 
my  mother  supremely  happy.  That  Revolutionary 
ancestor  was  a  stunning  idea." 

Mrs.  Bellmore  sighed.  "The  usual  fate  of  ghost- 
seers  is  mine,"  she  said,  resignedly.  "My  privileged 
encounter  with  a  spirit  is  attributed  to  lobster  salad 
or  mendacity.  Well,  I  have,  at  least,  one  memory 
left  from  the  wreck  —  a  kiss  from  the  unseen  world. 
Was  Captain  Kinsolving  a  very  brave  man,  do  you 
know,  Terence?" 

"He  was  licked  at  Yorktown,  I  believe,"  said 
Terence,  reflecting.  "They  say  he  skedaddled  with 
his  company,  after  the  first  battle  there." 


106  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"I  thought  he  must  have  been  timid,"  said  Mrs. 
Bellmore,  absently.     "He  might  have  had  another." 

"Another  battle.'*"  asked  Terence,  dully. 

"What  else  could  I  mean?  I  must  go  and  get 
ready  now;  the  auto  will  be  here  in  an  hour.  I've 
enjoyed  Clifftop  immensely.  Such  a  lovely  morning, 
isn't  it,  Terence?" 

On  her  way  to  the  station,  Mrs.  Bellmore  took 
from  her  bag  a  silk  handkerchief,  and  looked  at  it 
with  a  little  peculiar  smile.  Then  she  tied  it  in  sev- 
eral very  hard  knots,  and  threw  it,  at  a  convenient 
moment,  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff  along  which  the 
road  ran. 

In  his  room,  Terrence  was  giving  some  directions 
to  his  man.  Brooks.  "Have  this  stuff  done  up  in 
a  parcel,"  he  said,  "and  ship  it  to  the  address  on 
that  card." 

The  card  was  that  of  a  New  York  costumer.  The 
"stuff"  was  a  gentleman's  costume  of  the  days  of 
'76,  made  of  white  satin,  with  silver  buckles,  white 
silk  stockings,  and  white  kid  shoes.  A  powdered  wig 
and  a  sword  completed  the  dress. 

"And  look  about.  Brooks,"  added  Terence,  a  little 
anxiously,  "for  a  silk  handkerchief  with  my  initials 
in  one  corner.     I    must  have  dropped  it  somewhere." 

It  was  a  month  later  when  Mrs.  Bellmore  and  one 
or  two  others  of  the  smart  crowd  were  making  up  a 
list  of  names  for  a  coaching  trip  through  the  Catskills. 


A  Ghost  of  a  Chance  107 

Mrs.  Bellmore  looked  over  the  list  for  a  jBnal  censoring. 
The  name  of  Terence  Kinsolving  was  there.  Mrs. 
Bellmore  ran  her  prohibitive  pencil  lightly  through 
the  name. 

"Too  shy!"  she  murmured,  sweetly,  in  explanation. 


XI 

JIMMY  HAYES  AND  MURIEL 

I 

oUPPER  was  over,  and  there  had  fallen  upon  the 
camp  the  silence  that  accompanies  the  rolling  of 
corn-husk  cigarettes.  The  water  hole  shone  from  the 
dark  earth  like  a  patch  of  fallen  sky.  Coyotes  yelped. 
Dull  thumps  indicated  the  rocking-horse  movements 
of  the  hobbled  ponies  as  they  moved  to  fresh  grass. 
A  haK-troop  of  the  Frontier  Battalion  of  Texas  Rangers 
were  distributed  about  the  fire. 

A  well-known  sound  —  the  fluttering  and  scraping 
of  chaparral  against  wooden  stirrups  —  came  from 
the  thick  brush  above  the  camp.  The  rangers  listened 
cautiously.  They  heard  a  loud  and  cheerful  voice 
call  out  reassuringly: 

"Brace  up,  Muriel,  old  girl,  we're  'most  there  now! 
Been  a  long  ride  for  ye,  ain't  it,  ye  old  antediluvian 
handful  of  animated  carpet-tacks.'*  Hey,  now,  quit 
a  try  in'  to  kiss  me!  Don't  hold  on  to  my  neck  so 
tight  —  this  here  paint  hoss  ain't  any  too  shore-footed, 
let  me  tell  ye.  He's  liable  to  dump  us  both  off  if 
we  don't  watch  out." 

108 


Jimmy  Hayes  and  Muriel  109 

Two  minutes  of  waiting  brought  a  tired  "paint" 
pony  single-footing  into  camp.  A  gangling  youth 
of  twenty  lolled  in  the  saddle.  Of  the  "Muriel" 
whom  he  had  been  addressing,  nothing  was  to  be  seen. 

"Hi,  fellows!"  shouted  the  rider  cheerfully.  "This 
here's  a  letter  fer  Lieutenant  Manning." 

He  dismounted,  unsaddled,  dropped  the  coils  of 
his  stake-rope,  and  got  his  hobbles  from  the  saddle- 
horn.  While  Lieutenant  Manning,  in  command,  was 
reading  the  letter,  the  newcomer,  rubbed  solici- 
tously at  some  dried  mud  in  the  loops  of  the  hobbles, 
showing  a  consideration  for  the  forelegs  of  his  mount. 

"Boys,"  said  the  lieutenant,  waving  his  hand  to  the 
rangers,"  this  is  Mr.  James  Hayes.  He's  a  new  member 
of  the  company.  Captain  McLean  sends  him  down 
from  El  Paso.  The  boys  will  see  that  you  have  some 
supper,  Hayes,  as  soon  as  you  get  your  pony  hobbled." 

The  recruit  was  received  cordially  by  the  rangers. 
Still,  they  observed  him  shrewdly  and  with  suspended 
judgment.  Picking  a  comrade  on  the  border  is  done 
with  ten  times  the  care  and  discretion  with  which  a 
girl  chooses  a  sweetheart.  On  your  "side-kicker's" 
nerve,  loyalty,  aim,  and  coolness  your  own  life  may 
depend  many  times. 

After  a  hearty  supper  Hayes  joined  the  smokers 
about  the  fire.  His  appearance  did  not  settle  all  the 
questions  in  the  minds  of  his  brother  rangers.  They 
saw  simply  a  loose,  lank  youth  with  tow-coloured. 


110  Sixes  and  Sevens 

sun-bumed  hair  and  a  berry'-brown,  ingenuous  face 
that  wore  a  quizzical,  good-natured  smile. 

"Fellows,"  said  the  new  ranger,  "I'm  goin'  to  inter- 
duce  to  you  a  lady  friend  of  mine.  Ain't  ever  heard 
anybody  call  her  a  beauty,  but  you'll  all  admit  she's 
got  some  fine  points  about  her.     Come  along,  Muriel! " 

He  held  open  the  front  of  his  blue  flannel  shirt. 
Out  of  it  crawled  a  horned  frog.  A  bright  red  ribbon 
was  tied  jauntily  around  its  spiky  neck.  It  crawled 
to  its  owner's  knee  and  sat  there,  motionless. 

"This  here  Muriel,"  said  Hayes,  with  an  oratorical 
wave  of  his  hand,  "has  got  qualities.  She  nevei 
talks  back,  she  always  stays  at  home,  and  she's  satis- 
fied with  one  red  dress  for  every  day  and  Sunday,  too." 

"Look  at  that  blame  insect!"  said  one  of  the  rangers 
with  a  grin.  "I've  seen  plenty  of  them  horny  frogs, 
but  I  never  knew  anybody  to  have  one  for  a  side- 
partner.  Does  the  blame  thing  know  you  from  any- 
body else?" 

"Take  it  over  there  and  see,"  said  Hayes. 

The  stumpy  little  lizard  known  as  the  horned  frog 
is  harmless.  He  has  the  hideousness  of  the  prehistoric 
monsters  whose  reduced  descendant  he  is,  but  he  is 
gentler  than  the  dove. 

The  ranger  took  Muriel  from  Hayes's  knee  and  went 
back  to  his  seat  on  a  roll  of  blankets.  The  captive 
twisted  and  clawed  and  struggled  vigorously  in  his 
hand.     After  holding  it  for  a  moment  or  two,   the 


Jimmy  Hayes  and  Muriel  111 

ranger  set  it  upon  the  ground.  Awkwardly,  but  swiftly 
the  frog  worked  its  four  oddly  moving  legs  until  it 
stopped  close  by  Hayes's  foot. 

"  Well,  dang  my  hide ! "  said  the  other  ranger.  "  The 
little  cuss  knows  you.  Never  thought  them  insects 
had  that  much  sense!" 


II 

Jimmy  Hayes  became  a  favourite  in  the  ranger  camp. 
He  had  an  endless  store  of  good-nature,  and  a  mild, 
perennial  quality  of  humour  that  is  well  adapted  to 
camp  life.  He  was  never  without  his  horned  frog. 
In  the  bosom  of  his  shirt  during  rides,  on  his  knee  or 
shoulder  in  camp,  under  his  blankets  at  night,  the  ugly 
little  beast  never  left  him. 

Jimmy  was  a  humourist  of  a  type  that  prevails 
in  the  rural  South  and  West.  Unskilled  in  originating 
methods  of  amusing  or  in  witty  conceptions,  he  had 
hit  upon  a  comical  idea  and  clung  to  it  reverently. 
It  had  seemed  to  Jimmy  a  very  funny  thing  to  have 
about  his  person,  with  which  to  amuse  his  friends,  a 
tame  horned  frog  with  a  red  ribbon  around  its  neck. 
As  it  was  a  happy  idea,  why  not  perpetuate  it? 

The  sentiments  existing  between  Jimmy  and  the 
frog  cannot  be  exactly  determined.  The  capability 
of  the  horned  frog  for  lasting  affection  is  a  subject 
upon  which  we  have  had  no  symposiums.     It  is  easier 


112  Sixes  and  Sevens 

to  guess  Jimmy's  feelings.  Muriel  was  his  chef 
d'neuvre  of  wit,  and  as  such  he  cherished  her.  He 
caught  flies  for  her,  and  shielded  her  from  sudden 
northers.  Yet  his  care  was  half  selfish,  and  when  the 
time  came  she  repaid  him  a  thousand  fold.  Other 
Muriels  have  thus  overbalanced  the  light  attentions 
of  other  Jimmies. 

Not  at  once  did  Jimmy  Hayes  attain  full  brother- 
hood with  his  comrades.  They  loved  him  for  his  sim- 
plicity and  drollness,  but  there  hung  above  him  a  great 
sword  of  suspended  judgment.  To  make  merry  in 
camp  is  not  all  of  a  ranger's  life.  There  are  horse- 
thieves  to  trail,  desperate  criminals  to  run  down, 
bravos  to  battle  with,  bandits  to  rout  out  of  the 
chaparral,  peace  and  order  to  be  compelled  at  the 
muzzle  of  a  six-shooter.  Jimmy  had  been  "'most 
generally  a  cow-puncher,"  he  said;  he  was  inex- 
perienced in  ranger  methods  of  warfare.  Therefore  the 
rangers  speculated  apart  and  solemnly  as  to  how  he 
would  stand  fire.  For,  let  it  be  known,  the  honour  and 
pride  of  each  ranger  company  is  the  individual 
bravery  of  its  members. 

For  two  months  the  border  was  quiet.  The  rangers 
lolled,  listless,  in  camp.  And  then  —  bringing  joy 
to  the  rusting  guardians  of  the  frontier  —  Sebastian© 
Saldar,  an  eminent  Mexican  desperado  and  cattle- 
thief,  crossed  the  Rio  Grande  with  his  gang  and  began 
to  lay  waste  the  Texas  side.     There  were  indications 


Jimmy  Hayes  and  Muriel  IIS 

that  Jimmy  Hayes  would  soon  have  the  opportunity  to 
show  his  mettle.  The  rangers  patrolled  with  alacrity, 
but  Saldar's  men  were  mounted  like  Lochinvar,  and 
were  hard  to  catch. 

One  evening,  about  sundown,  the  rangers  halted 
for  supper  after  a  long  ride.  Their  horses  stood 
panting,  with  their  saddles  on.  The  men  were  frying 
bacon  and  boiling  coffee.  Suddenly,  out  of  the  brush, 
Sebastiano  Saldar  and  his  gang  dashed  upon  them  with 
blazing  six-shooters  and  high- voiced  yells.  It  was 
a  neat  surprise.  The  rangers  swore  in  annoyed  tones, 
and  got  their  Winchesters  busy;  but  the  attack  was 
only  a  spectacular  dash  of  the  purest  Mexican  type. 
After  the  florid  demonstration  the  raiders  galloped 
away,  yelling,  down  the  river.  The  rangers  mounted 
and  pursued;  but  in  less  than  two  miles  the  fag- 
ged ponies  laboured  so  that  Lieutenant  Manning 
gave  the  word  to  abandon  the  chase  and  return  to 
the  camp. 

Then  it  was  discovered  that  Jimmy  Hayes  was 
missing.  Some  one  remembered  having  seen  him  run 
for  his  pony  when  the  attack  began,  but  no  one  had 
set  eyes  on  him  since.  Morning  came,  but  no  Jimmy. 
They  searched  the  country  around,  on  the  theory 
that  he  had  been  killed  or  wounded,  but  without  suc- 
cess. Then  they  followed  after  Saldar's  gang,  but  it 
seemed  to  have  disappeared.  Manning  concluded 
that  the  wily  Mexican  had  recrossed  the  river  after 


114  Sixes  and  Sevens 

his  theatric  farewell.  And,  indeed,  no  further 
depredations  from  him  were  reported.       ^ 

This  gave  the  rangers  time  to  nurse  a  soreness  they 
had.  As  has  been  said,  the  pride  and  honour  of  the 
company  is  the  individual  bravery  of  its  members. 
And  now  they  believed  that  Jimmy  Hayes  had  turned 
coward  at  the  whiz  of  Mexican  bullets.  There  was 
no  other  deduction.  Buck  Davis  pointed  out  that  not 
a  shot  was  fired  by  Saldar's  gang  after  Jimmy  was 
seen  running  for  his  horse.  There  was  no  way  for 
him  to  have  been  shot.  No,  he  had  fled  from  his  first 
fight,  and  afterward  he  would  not  return,  aware 
that  the  scorn  of  his  comrades  would  be  a  worse  thing 
to  face  than  the  muzzles  of  many  rifles. 

So  Manning's  detachment  of  McLean's  company. 
Frontier  Battalion,  was  gloomy.  It  was  the  first 
blot  on  its  escutcheon.  Never  before  in  the  history 
of  the  service  had  a  ranger  shown  the  white  feather. 
All  of  them  had  liked  Jimmy  Hayes,  and  that  made 
it  worse. 

Days,  weeks,  and  months  went  by,  and  still  that 
little  cloud  of  unforgotten  cowardice  hung  above 
the  camp. 


Ill 


Nearly  a  year  afterward  —  after  many  camping 
grounds  and  many  hundreds  of  miles  guarded  and 


Jimmy  Hayes  and  Muriel  115 

defended  —  Lieutenant  Manning,  with  almost  the 
same  detachment  of  men,  was  sent  to  a  point  only  a 
few  miles  below  their  old  camp  on  the  river  to  look 
after  some  smuggling  there.  One  afternoon,  while 
they  were  riding  through  a  dense  mesquite  flat,  they 
came  upon  a  patch  of  open  hog-wallow  prairie.  There 
they  rode  upon  the  scene  of  an  unwritten  tragedy. 

In  a  big  hog-wallow  lay  the  skeletons  of  three 
Mexicans.  Their  clothing  alone  served  to  identify 
them.  The  largest  of  the  figures  had  once  been 
Sebastiano  Saldar.  His  great,  costly  sombrero,  heavy 
with  gold  ornamentation  —  a  hat  famous  all  along 
the  Rio  Grande  —  lay  there  pierced  by  three  bullets. 
Along  the  ridge  of  the  hog-wallow  rested  the  rusting 
Winchesters  of  the  Mexicans  —  all  pointing  in  the 
same  direction. 

The  rangers  rode  in  that  direction  for  fifty  yards. 
There,  in  a  little  depression  of  the  ground,  with  his 
rifle  still  bearing  upon  the  three,  lay  another  skeleton. 
It  had  been  a  battle  of  extermination.  There  was 
nothing  to  identify  the  solitary  defender.  His  clothing 
—  such  as  the  elements  had  left  distinguishable  — 
seemed  to  be  of  the  kind  that  any  ranchman  or  cowboy 
might  have  worn. 

"Some  cow-puncher,"  said  Manning,  "that  they 
caught  out  alone.  Good  boy!  He  put  up  a  dandy 
scrap  before  they  got  him.  So  that's  why  we  didn't 
hear  from  Don  Sebastiano  any  more!" 


116  Sixes  and  Sevens 

And  then,  from  beneath  the  weather-beaten  rags  of 
the  dead  man,  there  wriggled  out  a  horned  frog  with 
a  faded  red  ribbon  around  its  neck,  and  sat  upon  the 
shoulder  of  its  long  quiet  master.  Mutely  it  told  the 
story  of  the  untried  youth  and  the  swift  "paint" 
pony  —  how  they  had  outstripped  all  their  comrades 
that  day  in  the  pursuit  of  the  Mexican  raiders,  and 
how  the  boy  had  gone  down  upholding  the  honour 
of  the  company. 

The  ranger  troop  herded  close,  and  a  simultaneous 
wild  yell  arose  from  their  lips.  The  outburst  was  at 
once  a  dirge,  an  apology,  an  epitaph,  and  a  pa^an  of 
triumph.  A  strange  requiem,  you  may  say,  over  the 
body  of  a  fallen  .comrade;  but  if  Jimmy  Hayes  could 
have  heard  it  he  would  have  understood. 


XII 

THE  DOOR  OF  UNREST 

1  SAT  an  hour  by  sun,  in  the  editor's  room  of  the 
Montopolis  Weekly  Bugle.     I  was  the  editor. 

The  saffron  rays  of  the  dechning  sunlight  filtered 
through  the  cornstalks  in  Micajah  Widdup's  garden- 
patch,  and  cast  an  amber  glory  upon  my  paste-pot. 
I  sat  at  the  editorial  desk  in  my  non-rotary  revolving 
chair,  and  prepared  my  editorial  against  the  oligarchies. 
The  room,  with  its  one  window,  was  already  a  prey 
to  the  twilight.  One  by  one,  with  my  trenchant 
sentences,  I  lopped  off  the  heads  of  the  political  hydra, 
while  I  listened,  full  of  kindly  peace,  to  the  home-com- 
ing cow-bells  and  wondered  what  Mrs.  Flanagan  was 
going  to  have  for  supper. 

Then  in  from  the  dusky,  quiet  street  there  drifted 
and  perched  himself  upon  a  corner  of  my  desk  old 
Father  Time's  younger  brother.  His  face  was  beard- 
less and  as  gnarled  as  an  English  walnut.  I  never 
saw  clothes  such  as  he  wore.  They  would  have  re- 
duced Joseph's  coat  to  a  monochrome.  But  the 
colours  were  not  the  dyer's.  Stains  and  patches  and 
the  work  of  sun  and  rust  were  responsible  for  the 

117 


118  Sixes  and  Sevens 

diversity.  On  his  coarse  shoes  was  the  dust,  conceiv- 
ably, of  a  thousand  leagues.  I  can  describe  him 
no  further,  except  to  say  that  he  was  little  and 
weird  and  old  —  old  I  began  to  estimate  in  cen- 
turies when  I  saw  him.  Yes,  and  I  remember  that 
there  was  an  odour,  a  faint  odour  like  aloes,  or 
possibly  like  myrrh  or  leather;  and  I  thought  of 
museums. 

And  then  I  reached  for  a  pad  and  pencil,  for  bus- 
iness is  business,  and  visits  of  the  oldest  inhabitants 
are  sacred  and  honourable,  requiring  to  be  chronicled. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  sir,"  I  said.  "I  would  offer 
you  a  chair,  but  —  you  see,  sir,"  I  went  on,  "I  have 
lived  in  Montopolis  only  three  weeks,  and  I  have  not 
met  many  of  our  citizens."  I  turned  a  doubtful  eye  upon 
his  dust-stained  shoes,  and  concluded  with  a  news- 
paper phrase,  "I suppose  that  you  reside  in  our 
midst?" 

My  visitor  fumbled  in  his  raiment,  drew  forth  a 
soiled  card,  and  handed  it  to  me.  Upon  it  was  written, 
in  plain  but  unsteadily  formed  characters,  the  name 
"Michob  Ader." 

"I  am  glad  you  called,  Mr.  Ader,"  I  said.  "As 
one  of  our  older  citizens,  you  must  view  with  pride 
the  recent  growth  and  enterprise  of  Montopolis. 
x\mong  other  improvements,  I  think  I  can  promise 
that  the  town  will  now  be  provided  with  a  live,  enter- 
prising newspa " 


The  Door  of  Unrest  119 

"Do  ye  know  the  name  on  that  card?"  asked  my 
caller,  interrupting  me. 

"It  is  not  a  familiar  one  to  me,"  I  said. 

Again  he  visited  the  depths  of  his  ancient  vestments. 
This  time  he  brought  out  a  torn  leaf  of  some  book  or 
journal,  brown  and  flimsy  with  age.  The  heading 
of  the  page  was  the  Turkish  Spy  in  old-style  type; 
the  printing  upon  it  was  this: 

"There  is  a  man  come  to  Paris  in  this  year  1643 
who  pretends  to  have  lived  these  sixteen  hundred  years. 
He  says  of  himself  that  he  was  a  shoemaker  in  Jeru- 
salem at  the  time  of  the  Crucifixion;  that  his  name  is 
Michob  Ader;  and  that  when  Jesus,  the  Christian 
Messias,  was  condemned  by  Pontius  Pilate,  the 
Roman  president,  he  paused  to  rest  while  bearing  his 
cross  to  the  place  of  crucifixion  before  the  door  of 
Michob  Ader.  The  shoemaker  struck  Jesus  with  his 
fist,  saying:  *Go;  why  tarriest  thou?'  The  Messias 
answered  him:  T  indeed  am  going;  but  thou  shalt 
tarry  until  I  come';  thereby  condemning  him  to  live 
until  the  day  of  judgment.  He  lives  forever,  but 
at  the  end  of  every  hundred  years  he  falls  into  a  fit 
or  trance,  on  recovering  from  which  he  finds  himself 
in  the  same  state  of  youth  in  which  he  was  when 
Jesus  suffered,  being  then  about  thirty  years  of  age. 

"Such  is  the  story  of  the  Wandering  Jew,  as  told  by 

Michob  Ader,  who  relates "     Here  the  printing 

ended. 


120  ,       Sixes  and  Sevens 

I  must  have  muttered  aloud  something  to  myself 
about  the  Wandering  Jew,  for  the  old  man  spake  up, 
bitterly  and  loudly. 

"'Tis  a  lie,"  said  he,  "like  nine  tenths  of  what  ye 
call  history,  'Tis  a  Gentile  I  am,  and  no  Jew.  I  am 
after  footing  it  out  of  Jerusalem,  my  son;  but  if  that 
makes  me  a  Jew,  then  everything  that  comes  out  of 
a  bottle  is  babies'  milk.  Ye  have  my  name  on  the 
card  ye  hold;  and  ye  have  read  the  bit  of  paper  they 
call  the  Turkish  Spy  that  printed  the  news  when  I 
stepped  into  their  office  on  the  12th  day  of  June,  in 
the  year  1643,  just  as  I  have  called  upon  yc  to-day." 

I  laid  down  my  pencil  and  pad.  Clearly  it  would 
not  do.  Here  was  an  item  for  the  local  column  of 
the  Bugle  that  —  but  it  would  not  do.  Still,  frag- 
ments of  the  impossible  "personal"  began  to  flit 
through  my  conventionalized  brain.  "Uncle  Michob 
is  as  spry  on  his  legs  as  a  young  chap  of  only  a  thousand 
or    so."     "Our   venerable    caller    relates    with    pride 

that  George  Wash no,  Ptolemy  the  Great  —  once 

dandled  him  on  his  knee  at  his  father's  house."  "Un- 
cle Michob  says  that  our  wet  spring  was  nothing  in 
comparison  with  the  dampness  that  ruined  the  crops 

around    Mount    Ararat    when  he  was  a     boy " 

But  no,  no  —  it  would  not  do. 

I  was  trying  to  think  of  some  conversational  subject 
with  which  to  interest  my  visitor,  and  was  hesitating 
between  walking  matches  and  the  Pliocene  age,  when 


The  Door  of  Unrest  121 

the  old  man  suddenly  began  to  weep  poignantly  and 
distressfully. 

"Cheer  up,  Mr.  Ader,"  I  said,  a  little  awkwardly; 
"this  matter  may  blow  over  in  a  few  hundred  years 
more.  There  has  already  been  a  decided  reaction 
in  favour  of  Judas  Iscariot  and  Colonel  Burr  and  the 
celebrated  violinist,  Signor  Nero.  This  is  the  age  of 
whitewash.  You  must  not  allow  yourself  to  become 
down-hearted." 

Unknowingly,  I  had  struck  a  chord.  The  old  man 
blinked  belligerently  through  his  senile  tears. 

"'Tis  time,"  he  said,  "that  the  liars  be  doin'  justice 
to  somebody.  Yer  historians  are  no  more  than  a 
pack  of  old  women  gabblin'  at  a  wake.  A  finer  man 
than  the  Imperor  Nero  niver  wore  sandals.  Man,  I 
was  at  the  burnin'  of  Rome.  I  knowed  the  Imperor 
well,  for  in  them  days  I  was  a  well-known  char-acter. 
In  thim  days  they  had  rayspect  for  a  man  that  lived 
forever. 

"But  'twas  of  the  Imperor  Nero  I  was  goin'  to  tell 
ye.  I  struck  into  Rome,  up  the  Appian  Way,  on  the 
night  of  July  the  16th,  the  year  64.  I  had  just  stepped 
dowTi  by  way  of  Siberia  and  Afghanistan;  and  one 
foot  of  me  had  a  frost-bite,  and  the  other  a  blister 
burned  by  the  sand  of  the  desert;  and  I  was  feelin'  a 
bit  blue  from  doin'  patrol  duty  from  the  North  Pole 
down  to  the  Last  Chance  corner  in  Patagonia,  and 
bein'  miscalled  a  Jew  in  the  bargain.     Well,  I'm  tellin' 


122  Sixes  and  Sevens 

ye  I  was  passin'  the  Circus  Maximus,  and  it  was  dark 
as  pitch  over  the  way,  and  then  I  heard  somebody 
sing  out,  'Is  that  you,  Michob?' 

"Over  ag'inst  the  wall,  hid  out  amongst  a  pile  of 
barrels  and  old  dry-goods  boxes,  was  the  Imperor  Nero 
wid  his  togy  wrapped  around  his  toes,  smokin'  a  long, 
black  segar. 
'■'"Have  one,  Michob?'  says  he. 

"'None  of  the  weeds  for  me,'  says  I  —  'nayther  pipe 
nor  segar.  What's  the  use,'  says  I,  'of  smokin'  when 
ye've  not  got  the  ghost  of  a  chance  of  killin'  yeself 
by  doin'  it?' 

'"True  for  ye,  Michob  Ader,  my  perpetual  Jew,' 
says  the  Imperor;  'ye're  not  always  wandering.  Sure, 
'tis  danger  gives  the  spice  of  our  pleasures  —  next  to 
their  bein'  forbidden.' 

'"And  for  what,'  says  I,  'do  ye  smoke  be  night  in 
dark  places  widout  even  a  cinturion  in  plain  clothes 
to  attend  ye?' 

'"Have  ye  ever  heard,  Michob,'  says  the  Imperor, 
*of  predestinarianism?' 

"'I've  had  the  cousin  of  it,'  says  I.  'I've  been  on 
the  trot  with  pedestrianism  for  many  a  year,  and  more 
to  come,  as  ye  well  know.' 

"  'The  longer  word,'  says  me  friend  Nero,  'is  the 
tachin'  of  this  new  sect  of  people  they  call  the 
Christians.  'Tis  them  that's  raysponsible  for  me 
smokin'  be  night  in  holes  and  comers  of  the  dark.' 


The  Door  of  Unrest  123 

"And  then  I  sets  down  and  takes  off  a  shoe  and  rubs 
me  foot  that  is  frosted,  and  the  Imperor  tells  me  about 
it.  It  seems  that  since  I  passed  that  way  before,  the 
Imperor  had  mandamused  the  Impress  wid  a  divorce 
suit,  and  Misses  Poppsea,  a  cilibrated  lady,  was  in- 
gaged,  widout  riferences,  as  housekeeper  at  the  palace. 
'All  in  one  day,'  says  the  Imperor,  'she  puts  up  new 
lace  windy-curtains  in  the  palace  and  joins  the  anti- 
tobacco  society,  and  whin  I  feels  the  need  of  a  smoke 
I  must  be  after  sneakin'  out  to  these  piles  of  lumber 
in  the  dark.'  So  there  in  the  dark  me  and  the  Imperor 
sat,  and  I  told  him  of  me  travels.  And  when  they 
say  the  Imperor  was  an  incindiary,  they  lie.  'Twas 
that  night  the  fire  started  that  burnt  the  city.  'Tis 
my  opinion  that  it  began  from  a  stump  of  segar  that 
he  threw  down  among  the  boxes.  And  'tis  a  lie  that 
he  fiddled.  He  did  all  he  could  for  six  days  to  stop 
it,  sir." 

And  now  I  detected  a  new  flavour  to  Mr.  Michob 
Ader.  It  had  not  been  myrrh  or  balm  or  hyssop  that 
I  had  smelled.  The  emanation  was  the  odour  of  bad 
whiskey  —  and,  worse  still,  of  low  comedy  —  the  sort 
that  small  humorists  manufacture  by  clothing  the 
grave  and  reverend  things  of  legend  and  history  in 
the  vulgar,  topical  frippery  that  passes  for  a  certain 
kind  of  wit.  Michob  Ader  as  an  impostor,  claiming  nine- 
teen hundred  years,  and  playing  his  part  with  the  de- 
cency of  respectable  lunacy,  I  could  endure;  but  as  a 


124  Sixes  and  Sevens 

tedious  wag,  cheapening  his  egregious  storj''  with  song- 
book  levity,  his  importance  as  an  entertainer  grew  less. 

And  then,  as  if  he  suspected  my  thoughts,  he  sud- 
denly shifted  his  key. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  whined,  "but  sometimes 
I  get  a  little  mixed  in  my  head.  I  am  a  very  old  man; 
and  it  is  hard  to  remember  everything." 

I  knew  that  he  was  right,  and  that  I  should  not  try 
to  reconcile  him  with  Roman  history;  so  I  asked  for 
news  concerning  other  ancients  with  whom  he  had 
walked  familiar. 

Above  my  desk  hung  an  engraving  of  Raphael's 
cherubs.  You  could  j^et  make  out  their  forms,  though 
the  dust  blurred  their  outlines  strangely. 

"Ye  calls  them  'cher-rubs',"  cackled  the  old  man. 
"Babes,  ye  fancy  they  are,  with  wings.  And  there's 
one  wid  legs  and  a  bow  and  arrow  that  ye  call  Cupid 
—  I  know  where  they  was  found.  The  great-great- 
great-grandfather  of  thim  all  was  a  billy-goat.  Bein' 
an  editor,  sir,  do  ye  happen  to  know  where  Solomon's 
Temple  stood?" 

I  fancied  that  it  was  in  —  in  Persia.''  Well,  I  did 
not  know, 

"'Tis  not  in  history  nor  in  the  Bible  where  it  was. 
But  I  saw  it,  meself.  The  first  pictures  of  cher-rubs 
and  cupids  was  sculptured  upon  thim  walls  and  pillars. 
Two  of  the  biggest,  sir,  stood  in  the  adytum  to  form 
the  baldachin  over  the  Ark.     But  the  wings  of  thim 


The  Door  of  Unrest  125 

sculptures  was  intindid  for  horns.  And  the  faces  was 
the  faces  of  goats.  Ten  thousand  goats  there  was  in 
and  about  the  temple.  And  your  cher-rubs  was  billy- 
goats  in  the  days  of  King  Solomon,  but  the  painters 
misconstrued  the  horns  into  wings. 

"And  I  knew  Tamerlane,  the  lame  Timour,  sir, 
very  well.  I  saw  him  at  Keghut  and  at  Zaranj. 
He  was  a  little  man  no  larger  than  yerself ,  with  hair 
the  colour  of  an  amber  pipe  stem.  They  buried  him 
at  Samarkand.  I  was  at  the  wake,  sir.  Oh,  he 
was  a  fine-built  man  in  his  coflBn,  six  feet  long,  with 
black  whiskers  to  his  face.  And  I  see  'em  throw  turnips 
at  the  Imperor  Vispacian  in  Africa.  All  over  the  world 
I  have  tramped,  sir,  without  the  body  of  me  findin' 
any  rest.  'Twas  so  commanded.  I  saw  Jerusalem 
destroyed,  and  Pompeii  go  up  in  the  fireworks;  and  I 
was  at  the  coronation  of  Charlemagne  and  the  lynchin' 
of  Joan  of  Arc.  And  everywhere  I  go  there  comes 
storms  and  revolutions  and  plagues  and  fires.  'Twas 
so  commanded.  Ye  have  heard  of  the  Wandering 
Jew.  'Tis  all  so,  except  that  divil  a  bit  am  I  a  Jew. 
But  history  lies,  as  I  have  told  ye.  Are  ye  quite  sure, 
sir,  that  ye  haven't  a  drop  of  whiskey  convenient?  Ye 
well  know  that  I  have  many  miles  of  walking 
before  me." 

"I  have  none,"  said  I,  "and,  if  you  please,  I  am  about 
to  leave  for  my  supper." 

I  pushed  my  chair  back  creakingly.     This  ancient 


126  Sixes  and  Sevens 

landlubber  was  becoming  as  great  an  affliction  as  any 
cross-bowed  mariner.  He  shook  a  musty  effluvium 
from  his  piebald  clothes,  overturned  my  inkstand,  and 
went  on  with  his  insufferable  nonsense. 

"I  wouldn't  mind  it  so  much,"  he  complained,  "if 
it  wasn't  for  the  work  I  must  do  on  Good  Fridays. 
Ye  know  about  Pontius  Pilate,  sir,  of  course.  His 
body,  whin  he  killed  himself,  was  pitched  into  a  lake 
on  the  Alps  mountains.  Now,  listen  to  the  job  that 
'tis  mine  to  perform  on  the  night  of  ivery  Good  Friday. 
The  ould  divil  goes  dowTi  in  the  pool  and  drags  up 
Pontius,  and  the  water  is  bilin'  and  spewin'  like  a  wash 
pot.  And  the  ould  divil  sets  the  body  on  top  of  a 
throne  on  the  rocks,  and  thin  comes  me  share  of  the 
job.  Oh,  sir,  ye  would  pity  me  thin  —  ye  would  pray 
for  the  poor  Wandering  Jew  that  niver  was  a  Jew  if 
ye  could  see  the  horror  of  the  thing  that  I  must  do. 
'Tis  I  that  must  fetch  a  bowl  of  water  and  kneel  down 
before  it  till  it  washes  its  hands.  I  declare  to  ye  that 
Pontius  Pilate,  a  man  dead  two  hundred  years,  dragged 
up  with  the  lake  slime  coverin'  him  and  fishes  wrigglin' 
inside  of  him  widout  eyes,  and  in  the  discomposition  of 
the  body,  sits  there,  sir,  and  washes  his  hands  in  the 
bowl  I  hold  for  him  on  Good  Fridays.  'Twas  so 
commanded." 

Clearly,  the  matter  had  progressed  far  beyond  the 
scope  of  the  Bugle's  local  column.  There  might  have 
been  employment  here  for  the  alienist  or  for  those 


The  Door  of  Unrest  127 

who  circulate  the  pledge;  but  I  had  had  enough  of  it. 
I  got  up,  and  repeated  that  I  must  go. 

At  this  he  seized  my  coat,  grovelled  upon  my  desk, 
and  burst  again  into  distressful  weeping.  Whatever 
it  was  about,  I  said  to  myself  that  his  grief  was  genuine. 

"Come  now,  Mr.  Ader,"  I  said,  soothingly;  "what 
is  the  matter.?" 

The  answer  came  brokenly  through  his  racking  sobs: 
"Because  I  would  not.  .  .  let  the  poor  Christ 
.     .     .     rest.     .     .     upon  the  step." 

His  hallucination  seemed  beyond  all  reasonable 
answer;  yet  the  effect  of  it  upon  him  scarcely  merited 
disrespect.  But  I  knew  nothing  that  might  assuage  it; 
and  I  told  him  once  more  that  both  of  us  should  be 
leaving  the  office  at  once. 

Obedient  at  last,  he  raised  himself  from  ray  dishev- 
elled desk,  and  permitted  me  to  half  lift  him  to  the 
floor.  The  gale  of  his  grief  had  blown  away  his  words; 
his  freshet  of  tears  had  soaked  away  the  crust  of  his 
grief.  Reminiscence  died  in  him  —  at  least,  the 
coherent  part  of  it. 

"'Twas  me  that  did  it,"  he  muttered,  as  I  led  him 
toward  the  door  —  "me,  the  shoemaker  of  Jerusalem." 

I  got  him  to  the  sidewalk,  and  in  the  augmented 
light  I  saw  that  his  face  was  seared  and  lined  and 
warped  by  a  sadness  almost  incredibly  the  product  of 
a  single  lifetime. 

And  then  high  up  in  the  firmamental  darkness  we 


128  Sixes  and  Sevens 

heard  the  clamant  cries  of  some  great,  passing  birds. 
My  Wandering  Jew  lifted  his  hand,  with  side-tilted 
head. 

"The  Seven  Whistlers!"  he  said,  as  one  introduces 
well-known  friends. 

"Wild  geese,"  said  I;  "but  I  confess  that  their  num- 
ber is  beyond  me." 

"They  follow  me  everywhere,"  he  said.  "  'Twas  so 
commanded.  What  ye  hear  is  the  souls  of  the  seven 
Jews  that  helped  with  the  Crucifixion.  Sometimes 
they're  plovers  and  sometimes  geese,  but  ye'll  find 
them  always  flyin'  where  I  go." 

I  stood,  uncertain  how  to  take  my  leave.  I  looked 
down  the  street,  shuflBed  my  feet,  looked  back  again 
—  and  felt  my  hair  rise.   The  old  man  had  disappeared. 

And  then  my  capillaries  relaxed,  for  I  dimly  saw  him 
footing  it  away  through  the  darkness.  But  he  walked 
so  swiftly  and  silently  and  contrary  to  the  gait  prom- 
ised by  his  age  that  my  composure  was  not  all 
restored,  though  I  knew  not  why. 

That  night  I  was  foolish  enough  to  take  down  some 
dust-covered  volumes  from  my  modest  shelves.  I 
searched  "Hermippus  Redivvus"  and  "Salathiel" 
and  the  "Pepys  Collection"  in  vain.  And  then  in  a 
book  called  "The  Citizen  of  the  World,"  and  in  one 
two  centuries  old,  I  came  upon  what  I  desired.  Mi- 
chob  Ader  had  indeed  come  to  Paris  in  the  year  1643, 
and    related   to   the    Turkish    Spy   an   extraordinary 


The  Door  of  Unrest  129 

story.  He  claimed  to  be  the  Wandering  Jew,  and 
that 

But  here  I  fell  asleep,  for  my  editorial  duties  had 
not  been  light  that  day. 

Judge  Hoover  was  the  Bugle's  candidate  for  congress. 
Having  to  confer  with  him,  I  sought  his  home  early 
the  next  morning;  and  we  walked  together  down  town 
through  a  little  street  with  which  I  was  unfamiliar. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  Michob  Ader.-*"  I  asked  him, 
smiling. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  the  judge.  "And  that  reminds 
me  of  my  shoes  he  has  for  mending.  Here  is  his 
shop  now." 

Judge  Hoover  stepped  into  a  dingy,  small  shop. 
I  looked  up  at  the  sign,  and  saw  "Mike  O'Bader, 
Boot  and  Shoe  Maker,"  on  it.  Some  wild  geese 
passed  above,  honking  clearly.  I  scratched  my  ear 
and  frowned,  and  then  trailed  into  the  shop. 

There  sat  my  Wandering  Jew  on  his  shoemaker's 
bench,  trimming  a  half-sole.  He  was  drabbled  with 
dew,  grass-stained,  unkempt,  and  miserable;  and  on 
his  face  was  still  the  unexplained  wretchedness,  the 
problematic  sorrow,  the  esoteric  woe,  that  had  been 
written  there  by  nothing  less,  it  seemed,  than  the  sty- 
lus of  the  centuries. 

Judge  Hoover  inquired  kindly  concerning  his  shoes. 
The  old  shoemaker  looked  up,  and  spoke  sanely  enough. 
He  had  been  ill,  he  said,  for  a  few  days.     The  next 


130  Sixes  and  Sevens 

day  the  shoes  would  be  ready.  He  looked  at  me,  and 
I  could  see  that  I  had  no  place  in  his  memory.  So  out 
we  went,  and  on  our  way. 

"Old  Mike,"  remarked  the  candidate,  "has  been  on 
one  of  his  sprees.  He  gets  crazy  drunk  regularly  once 
a  month.     But  he's  a  good  shoemaker." 

"What  is  his  history.''"  I  inquired, 

"Whiskey,"  epitomized  Judge  Hoover.  "That 
explains  him." 

I  was  silent,  but  I  did  not  accept  the  explanation. 
And  so,  when  I  had  the  chance,  I  asked  old  man  Sel- 
lers, who  browsed  daily  on  my  exchanges. 

"Mike  O'Bader,"  said  he,  "was  makin'  shoes  in 
Montopolis  when  I  come  here  goin'  on  fifteen  year 
ago.  I  guess  whiskey's  his  trouble.  Once  a  month 
he  gets  oflF  the  track,  and  stays  so  a  week.  He's  got 
a  rigmarole  somethin'  about  his  bein'  a  Jew  pedler 
that  he  tells  ev'rybody.  Nobody  won't  listen  to  him 
any  more.  When  he's  sober  he  ain't  sich  a  fool  — 
he's  got  a  sight  of  books  in  the  back  room  of  his  shop 
that  he  reads.  I  guess  you  can  lay  all  his  trouble  to 
whiskey." 

But  again  I  would  not.  Not  yet  was  my  Wandering 
Jew  rightly  construed  for  me.  I  trust  that  women 
may  not  be  allowed  a  title  to  all  the  curiosity  in  the 
world.  So  when  Montopolis 's  oldest  inhabitant  (some 
ninety  score  years  younger  than  Michob  Ader) 
dropped     in    to    acquire     promulgation    in  print,  I 


The  Door  of  Unrest  131 

siphoned  his  perpetual  trickle  of  reminiscence  in 
the  direction  of  the  uninterpreted  maker  of  shoes. 

Uncle  Abner  was  the  Complete  History  of  Mon- 
topolis,  bound  in  butternut. 

"O'Bader,"  he  quavered,  "come  here  in  '69.  He 
was  the  first  shoemaker  in  the  place.  Folks  generally 
considers  him  crazy  at  times  now.  But  he  don't 
harm  nobody.  I  s'pose  drinkin'  upset  his  mind  — 
yes,  drinkin'  very  likely  done  it.  It's  a  powerful  bad 
thing,  drinkin'.  I'm  an  old,  old  man,  sir,  and  I  never 
see  no  good  in  drinkin'," 

I  felt  disappointment.  I  was  willing  to  admit  drink 
in  the  case  of  my  shoemaker,  but  I  preferred  it  as  a 
recourse  instead  of  a  cause.  Why  had  he  pitched  upon 
his  perpetual,  strange  note  of  the  Wandering  Jew.? 
Why  his  unutterable  grief  during  his  aberration.'' 
I  could  not  yet  accept  whiskey  as  an  explanation. 

"Did  INIike  O'Bader  ever  have  a  great  loss  or  trouble 
of  any  kind?"  I  asked. 

"Lemme  see!  About  thirty  year  ago  there  was 
somethin'  of  the  kind,  I  recollect.  Montopolis,  sir, 
in  them  days  used  to  be  a  mighty  strict  place. 

"Well,  Mike  O'Bader  had  a  daughter  then  —  a 
right  pretty  girl.  She  was  too  gay  a  sort  for  Montop- 
olis, so  one  day  she  slips  off  to  another  town  and  runs 
away  with  a  circus.  It  was  two  years  before  she  comes 
back,  all  fixed  up  in  fine  clothes  and  rings  and  jewellery, 
to  see  Mike.     He  wouldn't  have  nothin'  to  do  with 


132  Sixes  and  Sevens 

her,  so  she  stays  around  town  awhile,  anyway,  I 
reckon  the  men  folks  wouldn't  have  raised  no  objec- 
tions, but  the  women  egged  'em  on  to  order  her  to 
leave  town.  But  she  had  plenty  of  spunk,  and  told 
'em  to  mind  their  own  business. 

"So  one  night  they  decided  to  run  her  away.  A 
crowd  of  men  and  women  drove  her  out  of  her  house, 
and  chased  her  with  sticks  and  stones.  She  run  to 
her  father's  door,  callin'  for  help.  Mike  opens  it,  and 
when  he  sees  who  it  is  he  hits  her  with  his  fist  and 
knocks  her  down  and  shuts  the  door. 

"And  then  the  crowd  kept  on  chunkin'  her  till  she 
run  clear  out  of  town.  And  the  next  day  they  finds 
her  drowned  dead  in  Hunter's  mill  pond.  I  mind  it  all 
now.     That  was  thirty  year  ago." 

I  leaned  back  in  my  non-rotary  revolving  chair  and 
nodded  gently,  like  a  mandarin,  at  my  paste-pot. 

"^^Tien  old  Mike  has  a  spell,"  went  on  Uncle  Abner, 
tepidly  garrulous,  "he  thinks  he's  the  Wanderin' 
Jew." 

"He  is,"  said  I,  nodding  away. 

And  Uncle  Abner  cackled  insinuatingly  at  the  editor's 
remark,  for  he  was  expecting  at  least  a  "stickful" 
in  the  "Personal  Notes"  of  the  Bugle. 


XIII 

THE  DUPLICITY  OF  HARGRAVES 

When  Major  Pendleton  Talbot,  of  Mobile,  sir, 
and  his  daughter,  Miss  Lydia  Talbot,  came  to  Wash- 
ington to  reside,  they  selected  for  a  boarding  place  a 
house  that  stood  fifty  yards  back  from  one  of  the 
quietest  avenues.  It  was  an  old-fashioned  brick 
building,  with  a  portico  upheld  by  tall  white  pillars. 
The  yard  was  shaded  by  stately  locusts  and  elms, 
and  a  catalpa  tree  in  season  rained  its  pink  and  white 
blossoms  upon  the  grass.  Rows  of  high  box  bushes 
lined  the  fence  and  walks.  It  was  the  Southern  style 
and  aspect  of  the  place  that  pleased  the  eyes  of 
the  Talbots. 

In  this  pleasant,  private  boarding  house  they  en- 
gaged rooms,  including  a  study  for  Major  Talbot, 
who  was  adding  the  finishing  chapters  to  his  book, 
"Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences  of  the  Alabama  Army, 
Bench,  and  Bar." 

Major  Talbot  was  of  the  old,  old  South.  The  pres- 
ent day  had  little  interest  or  excellence  in  his  eyes. 
His  mind  lived  in  that  period  before  the  Civil  War, 
when  the  Talbots  owned  thousands  of  acres  of  fine 

133 


134  Sixes  and  Sevens 

cotton  land  and  the  slaves  to  till  them;  when  the 
family  mansion  was  the  scene  of  princely  hospitality, 
and  drew  its  guests  from  the  aristocracy  of  the  South. 
Out  of  that  period  he  had  brought  all  its  old  pride  and 
scruples  of  honour,  an  antiquated  and  punctilious 
politeness,  and  (you  would  think)  its  wardrobe. 

Such  clothes  were  surely  never  made  within  fifty 
years.  The  major  was  tall,  but  whenever  he  made 
that  wonderful,  archaic  genuflexion  he  called  a  bow, 
the  corners  of  his  frock  coat  swept  the  floor.  That 
garment  was  a  surprise  even  to  Washington,  which 
has  long  ago  ceased  to  shy  at  the  frocks  and  broad- 
brimmed  hats  of  Southern  congressmen.  One  of 
the  boarders  christened  it  a  "Father  Hubbard," 
and  it  certainly  was  high  in  the  waist  and  full  in  the 
skirt. 

But  the  major,  with  all  his  queer  clothes,  his  immense 
area  of  plaited,  ravelling  shirt  bosom,  and  the  little 
black  string  tie  with  the  bow  always  slipping  on  one 
side,  both  was  smiled  at  and  liked  in  Mrs.  Vardeman's 
select  boarding  house.  Some  of  the  young  depart- 
ment clerks  would  often  "string  him,"  as  they  called 
it,  getting  him  started  upon  the  subject  dearest  to 
him  —  the  traditions  and  history  of  his  beloved  South- 
land. During  his  talks  he  would  quote  freely  from 
the  "Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences."  But  they 
were  very  careful  not  to  let  him  see  their  designs,  for 
in  spite  of  his  sixty-eight  years,  he  could   make  the 


The  Duplicity  of  Har graves  135 

boldest  of  them  uncomfortable  under  the  steady  regard 
of  his  piercing  gray  eyes. 

Miss  Lydia  was  a  plump,  little  old  maid  of  thirty- 
five,  with  smoothly  drawn,  tightly  twisted  hair  that 
made  her  look  still  older.  Old  fashioned,  too,  she 
was;  but  ante-bellum  glory  did  not  radiate  from  her 
as  it  did  from  the  major.  She  possessed  a  thrifty 
common  sense;  and  it  was  she  who  handled  the  fi- 
nances of  the  family,  and  met  all  comers  when  there 
were  bills  to  pay.  The  major  regarded  board  bills 
and  wash  bills  as  contemptible  nuisances.  They  kept 
coming  in  so  persistently  and  so  often.  Why,  the 
major  wanted  to  know,  could  they  not  be  filed  and  paid 
in  a  lump  sum  at  some  convenient  period  —  say  when 
the  "Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences"  had  been  pub- 
lished and  paid  for?  Miss  Lydia  would  calmly  go  on 
with  her  sewing  and  say,  "We'll  pay  as  we  go  as  long 
as  the  money  lasts,  and  then  perhaps  they'll  have  to 
lump  it." 

Most  of  Mrs.  Vardeman's  boarders  were  away  dur- 
ing the  day,  being  nearly  all  department  clerks  and 
business  men;  but  there  was  one  of  them  who  was 
about  the  house  a  great  deal  from  morning  to  night. 
This  was  a  young  man  named  Henry  Hopkins  Har- 
graves  —  every  one  in  the  house  addressed  him  by 
his  full  name  —  who  was  engaged  at  one  of  the  popular 
vaudeville  theatres.  Vaudeville  has  risen  to  such  a 
respectable  plane  in  the  last  few  years,  and  Mr.  Har- 


136  Sixes  and  Sevens 

graves  was  such  a  modest  and  well-mannered  person, 
that  Mrs.  Vardeman  could  find  no  objection  to  en- 
rolling him  upon  her  list  of  boarders. 

At  the  theatre  Hargraves  was  known  as  an  all-round 
dialect  comedian,  having  a  large  repertoire  of  Ger- 
man, Irish,  Swede,  and  black-face  specialties.  But 
Mr.  Hargraves  was  ambitious,  and  often  spoke  of  his 
great  desire  to  succeed  in  legitimate  comedy. 

This  young  man  appeared  to  conceive  a  strong  fancy 
for  Major  Talbot.  Whenever  that  gentleman  would 
begin  his  Southern  reminiscences,  or  repeat  some  of 
the  liveliest  of  the  anecdotes,  Hargraves  could  always 
be  found,  the  most  attentive  among  his  listeners. 

For  a  time  the  major  showed  an  inclination  to  dis- 
courage the  advances  of  the  "play  actor,"  as  he  pri- 
vately termed  him;  but  soon  the  young  man's  agree- 
able manner  and  indubitable  appreciation  of  the  old 
gentleman's  stories  completely  won  him  over. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  two  were  like  old  chums. 
The  major  set  apart  each  afternoon  to  read  to  him  the 
manuscript  of  his  book.  During  the  anecdotes  Har- 
graves never  failed  to  laugh  at  exactly  the  right  point. 
The  major  was  moved  to  declare  to  Miss  Lydia  one 
day  that  young  Hargraves  possessed  remarkable 
perception  and  a  gratifying  respect  for  the  old  regime. 
And  when  it  came  to  talking  of  those  old  days  —  if 
Major  Talbot  liked  to  talk,  Mr.  Hargraves  was  en- 
tranced to  listen. 


The  Duplicity  of  Hargraves  137 

Like  almost  all  old  people  who  talk  of  the  past,  the 
major  loved  to  linger  over  details.  In  describing  the 
splendid,  almost  royal,  days  of  the  old  planters,  he 
would  hesitate  until  he  had  recalled  the  name  of  the 
Negro  who  held  his  horse,  or  the  exact  date  of  certain 
minor  happenings,  or  the  number  of  bales  of  cotton 
raised  in  such  a  year;  but  Hargraves  never  grew 
impatient  or  lost  interest.  On  the  contrary,  he  would 
advance  questions  on  a  variety  of  subjects  connected 
with  the  life  of  that  time,  and  he  never  failed  to 
extract  ready  replies. 

The  fox  hunts,  the  'possum  suppers,  the  hoe  downs 
and  jubilees  in  the  Negro  quarters,  the  banquets  in 
the  plantation-house  ball,  when  invitations  went  for 
fifty  miles  around;  the  occasional  feuds  with  the  neigh- 
bouring gentry;  the  major's  duel  with  Rathbone 
Culbertson  about  Kitty  Chalmers,  who  afterward 
married  a  Thwaite  of  South  Carolina;  and  private 
yacht  races  for  fabulous  sums  on  Mobile  Bay;  the 
quaint  beliefs,  improvident  habits,  and  loyal  virtues  of 
the  old  slaves — all  these  were  subjects  that  held  both 
the  major  and  Hargraves  absorbed  for  hours  at  a  time. 

Sometimes,  at  night,  when  the  young  man  would  be 
coming  upstairs  to  his  room  after  his  turn  at  the 
theatre  was  over,  the  major  would  appear  at  the  door 
of  his  study  and  beckon  archly  to  him.  Going  in, 
Hargraves  would  find  a  little  table  set  with  a  decanter, 
sugar  bowl,  fruit,  and  a  big  bunch  of  fresh  green  mint. 


138  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"It  occurred  to  me,"  the  major  would  begin  —  he 
was  always  ceremonious  —  "that  perhaps  you  might 
have  found  your  duties  at  the  —  at  your  place  of  occu- 
pation —  sufficiently  arduous  to  enable  you,  Mr. 
Hargraves,  to  appreciate  what  the  poet  might  well 
have  had  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote,  'tired  Nature's 
sweet  restorer,' — one  of  our  Southern  juleps." 

It  was  a  fascination  to  Hargraves  to  watch  him  make 
it.  He  took  rank  among  artists  when  he  began,  and 
he  never  varied  the  process.  With  what  delicacy  he 
bruised  the  mint;  with  what  exquisite  nicety  he  es- 
timated the  ingredients;  with  what  sohcitous  care  he 
capped  the  compound  with  the  scarlet  fruit  glowing 
against  the  dark  green  fringe!  And  then  the  hospital- 
ity and  grace  with  which  he  offered  it,  after  the  selected 
oat  straws  had  been  plunged  into  its  tinkling  depths! 

After  about  four  months  in  Washington,  Miss 
Lydia  discovered  one  morning  that  they  were  almost 
without  money.  The  "Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences" 
was  completed,  but  publishers  had  not  jumped  at  the 
collected  gems  of  Alabama  sense  and  wit.  The  rental 
of  a  small  house  which  they  still  owned  in  Mobile  was 
two  months  in  arrears.  Their  board  money  for  the 
month  would  be  due  in  three  days.  Miss  Lydia 
called  her  father  to  a  consultation. 

"No  money?"  said  he  with  a  surprised  look.  "It 
is  quite  annoying  to  be  called  on  so  frequently  for 
these  petty  sums.     Really,  I " 


The  Duplicity  of  Har graves  139 

The  major  searched  his  pockets.  He  found  only 
a  two-dollar  bill,  which  he  returned  to  his  vest 
pocket. 

"I  must  attend  to  this  at  once,  Lydia,"  he  said. 
"Kindly  get  me  my  umbrella  and  I  will  go  down  town 
immediately.  The  congressman  from  our  district. 
General  Fulghum,  assured  me  some  days  ago  that  he 
would  use  his  influence  to  get  my  book  published  at 
an  early  date.  I  will  go  to  his  hotel  at  once  and  see 
what  arrangement  has  been  made." 

With  a  sad  little  smile  Miss  Lydia  watched  him 
button  his  "Father  Hubbard"  and  depart,  pausing  at 
the  door,  as  he  always  did,  to  bow  profoundly. 

That  evening,  at  dark,  he  returned.  It  seemed  that 
Congressman  Fulghum  had  seen  the  publisher  who  had 
the  major's  manuscript  for  reading.  That  person 
had  said  that  if  the  anecdotes,  etc.,  were  carefully 
pruned  dowTi  about  one  half,  in  order  to  eliminate  the 
sectional  and  class  prejudice  with  which  the  book 
was  dyed  from  end  to  end,  he  might  consider  its 
publication. 

The  major  was  in  a  white  heat  of  anger,  but  regained 
his  equanimity,  according  to  his  code  of  manners,  as 
soon  as  he  was  in  Miss  Lydia's  presence. 

"We  must  have  money,"  said  Miss  Lydia,  with  a 
little  wrinkle  above  her  nose.  "Give  me  the  two 
dollars,  and  I  will  telegraph  to  Uncle  Ralph  for  some 
to-night." 


140  Sixes  and  Sevens 

The  major  drew  a  small  envelope  from  his  upper 
vest  pocket  and  tossed  it  on  the  table. 

"Perhaps  it  was  injudicious,"  he  said  mildly,  "but 
the  sum  was  so  merely  nominal  that  I  bought  tickets 
to  the  theatre  to-night.  It's  a  new  war  drama,  Lydia. 
I  thought  you  would  be  pleased  to  witness  its  first 
production  in  Washington.  I  am  told  that  the  South 
has  very  fair  treatment  in  the  play.  I  confess  I  should 
like  to  see  the  performance  myself." 

Miss  Lydia  threw  up  her  hands  in  silent  despair. 

Still,  as  the  tickets  were  bought,  they  might  as  well 
be  used.  So  that  evening,  as  they  sat  in  the  theatre 
listening  to  the  lively  overture,  even  Miss  Lydia  was 
minded  to  relegate  their  troubles,  for  the  hour,  to 
second  place.  The  major,  in  spotless  linen,  with  his 
extraordinary  coat  showing  only  where  it  was  closely 
buttoned,  and  his  white  hair  smoothly  roached,  looked 
really  fine  and  distinguished.  The  curtain  went  up 
on  the  first  act  of  "A  Magnolia  Flower,"  revealing  a 
typical  Southern  plantation  scene.  Major  Talbot 
betrayed  some  interest. 

"Oh,  see!"  exclaimed  Miss  Lydia,  nudging  his 
arm,  and  pointing  to  her  programme. 

The  major  put  on  his  glasses  and  read  the  line  in 
the  cast  of  characters  that  her  finger  indicated. 

Col.  Webster  Calhoun.  .  .  .  H.  Hopkins 
Hargraves. 

"It's  our  Mr.  Hargraves,"  said  Miss  Lj^dia.     "It 


The  Duplicity  of  Har graves  141 

must  be  his  first  appearance  in  what  he  calls  'the  le- 
gitimate.'    I'm  so  glad  for  him." 

Not  until  the  second  act  did  Col.  Webster  Cal- 
houn appear  upon  the  stage.  When  he  made  his 
entry  Major  Talbot  gave  an  audible  sniff,  glared  at 
him,  and  seemed  to  freeze  solid.  Miss  Lydia  uttered 
a  little,  ambiguous  squeak  and  crumpled  her  pro- 
gramme in  her  hand.  For  Colonel  Calhoun  was  made 
up  as  nearly  resembling  Major  Talbot  as  one  pea  does 
another.  The  long,  thin  white  hair,  curly  at  the 
ends,  the  aristocratic  beak  of  a  nose,  the  crumpled, 
wide,  ravelling  shirt  front,  the  string  tie,  with  the  bow 
nearly  under  one  ear,  were  almost  exactly  duplicated. 
And  then,  to  clinch  the  imitation,  he  wore  the  twin 
to  the  major's  supposed  to  be  unparalleled  coat. 
High-collared,  baggy,  empire- waisted,  ample-skirted, 
hanging  a  foot  lower  in  front  than  behind,  the  garment 
could  have  been  designed  from  no  other  pattern. 
From  then  on,  the  major  and  Miss  Lydia  sat 
bewitched,  and  saw  the  counterfeit  presentment 
of  a  haughty  Talbot  "dragged,"  as  the  major 
afterward  expressed  it,  "through  the  slanderous  mire 
of  a  corrupt  stage." 

Mr.  Hargraves  had  used  his  opportunities  well. 
He  had  caught  the  major's  little  idiosyncrasies  of 
speech,  accent,  and  intonation  and  his  pompous  court- 
liness to  perfection  —  exaggerating  all  to  the  purposes 
of  the  stage.     When  he  performed  that  marvellous 


142  Sixes  and  Sevens 

bow  that  the  major  fondly  imagined  to  be  the  pink 
of  all  salutations,  the  audience  sent  forth  a  sudden 
round  of  hearty  applause. 

Miss  Lydia  sat  immovable,  not  daring  to  glance 
toward  her  father.  Sometimes  her  hand  next  to  him 
would  be  laid  against  her  cheek,  as  if  to  conceal  the 
smile  which,  in  spite  of  her  disapproval,  she  could  not 
entirely  suppress. 

The  culmination  of  Hargraves's  audacious  imitation 
took  place  in  the  third  act.  The  scene  is  where  Colo- 
nel Calhoun  entertains  a  few  of  the  neighbouring 
planters  in  his  "den." 

Standing  at  a  table  in  the  centre  of  the  stage,  with 
his  friends  grouped  about  him,  he  delivers  that  inimi- 
table, rambling,  character  monologue  so  famous  in 
"A  Magnolia  Flower,"  at  the  same  time  that  he 
deftly  makes  juleps  for  the  party. 

Major  Talbot,  sitting  quietly,  but  white  with  in- 
dignation, heard  his  best  stories  retold,  his  pet  theories 
and  hobbies  advanced  and  expanded,  and  the  dream 
of  the  "Anecdotes  and  Reminiscences"  served,  ex- 
aggerated and  garbled.  His  favourite  narrative  — 
that  of  his  duel  with  Rathbone  Culbertson  —  was  not 
omitted,  and  it  was  delivered  with  more  fire,  egotism, 
and  gusto  than  the  major  himself  put  into  it. 

The  monologue  concluded  with  a  quaint,  delicious, 
witty  little  lecture  on  the  art  of  concocting  a  julep, 
illustrated  by  the  act.     Here  Major  Talbot's  delicate 


The  Duplicity  of  Hargraves  143 

but  showy  science  was  reproduced  to  a  hair's  breadth 

—  from  his  dainty  handling  of  the  fragrant  weed  — 
"the  one-thousandth  part  of  a  grain  too  much  pres- 
sure, gentlemen,  and  you  extract  the  bitterness,  in- 
stead of  the  aroma,  of  this  heaven-bestowed  plant" 

—  to  his  solicitous  selection  of  the  oaten  straws. 

At  the  close  of  the  scene  the  audience  raised  a  tu- 
multuous roar  of  appreciation.  The  portrayal  of  the 
type  was  so  exact,  so  sure  and  thorough,  that  the 
leading  characters  in  the  play  were  forgotten.  After 
repeated  calls,  Hargraves  came  before  the  curtain  and 
bowed,  his  rather  boyish  face  bright  and  flushed  with 
the  knowledge  of  success. 

At  last  Miss  Lydia  turned  and  looked  at  the  major. 
His  thin  nostrils  were  working  like  the  gills  of  a  fisli. 
He  laid  both  shaking  hands  upon  the  arms  of  his  chair 
to  rise. 

"We  will  go,  Lydia,"  he  said  chokingly.  "This 
is  an  abominable  —  desecration." 

Before  he  could  rise,  she  pulled  him  back  intohis  seat. 

"We  will  stay  it  out,"  she  declared.  "Do  you  want 
to  advertise  the  copy  by  exhibiting  the  original  coat?" 
So  they  remained  to  the  end. 

Hargraves's  success  must  have  kept  him  up  late 
that  night,  for  neither  at  the  breakfast  nor  at  the 
dinner  table  did  he  appear. 

About  three  in  the  afternoon  he  tapped  at  the  door 
of  Major  Talbot's  study.     The  major  opened  it,  and 


144  Sixes  and  Sevens 

Hargraves  walked  In  with  his  hands  full  of  the  morning 
papers  —  too  full  of  his  triumph  to  notice  anything 
unusual  in  the  major's  demeanour. 

"I  put  it  all  over  'em  last  night,  major,"  he  began 
exultantly.  "I  had  my  inning,  and,  I  think,  scored. 
Here's  what  the  Post  says: 

His  conception  and  portrayal  of  the  old-time  South- 
ern colonel,  with  his  absurd  grandiloquence,  his 
eccentric  garb,  his  quaint  idioms  and  phrases,  his 
moth-eaten  pride  of  family,  and  his  really  kind  heart, 
fastidious  sense  of  honour,  and  lovable  simplicity,  is 
the  best  delineation  of  a  character  role  on  the  boards 
to-day.  The  coat  worn  by  Colonel  Calhoun  is  itself 
nothing  less  than  an  evolution  of  genius.  Mr.  Har- 
graves has  captured  his  public. 

"How  does  that  sound,  major,  for  a  first  nighter?" 

"I  had  the  honour" — the  major's  voice  sounded 
ominously  frigid — "of  witnessing  your  very  remark- 
able performance,  sir,  last  night." 

Hargraves  looked  disconcerted. 

"You  were  there?  I  didn't  know  you  ever  —  I 
didn't  know  you  cared  for  the  theatre.  Oh,  I  say, 
Major  Talbot,"  he  exclaimed  frankly,  "don't  you  be 
offended.  I  admit  I  did  get  a  lot  of  pointers  from  you 
that  helped  me  out  wonderfully  in  the  part.  But 
it's  a  type,  you  .know  —  not  individual.  The  way  the 
audience  caught  on  shov»s  that.  Half  the  patrons  of 
that  theatre  are  Southerners.     They  recognized  it." 


The  Duplicity  of  Hargraves  145 

"Mr.  Hargraves,"  said  the  major,  who  had  remained 
standing,  "you  have  put  upon  me  an  unpardonable 
insult.  You  have  burlesqued  my  person,  grossly 
betrayed  my  confidence,  and  misused  my  hospitality. 
If  I  thought  you  possessed  the  faintest  conception  of 
what  is  the  sign  manual  of  a  gentleman,  or  what  is 
due  one,  I  would  call  you  out,  sir,  old  as  I  am.  I  will 
ask  you  to  leave  the  room,  sir," 

The  actor  appeared  to  be  slightly  bewildered,  and 
seemed  hardly  to  take  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  old 
gentleman's  words. 

"I  am  truly  sorry  you  took  offence,"  he  said  regret- 
fully. "Up  here  we  don't  look  at  things  just  as  you 
people  do.  I  know  men  who  would  buy  out  half  the 
house  to  have  their  personality  put  on  the  stage  so  the 
public  would  recognize  it." 

"They  are  not  from  Alabama,  sir,"  said  the  major 
haughtily. 

"Perhaps  not.  I  have  a  pretty  good  memory, 
major;  let  me  quote  a  few  lines  from  your  book.  In 
response  to  a  toast  at  a  banquet  given  in  —  Milledge- 
ville,  I  believe  —  you  uttered,  and  intend  to  have 
printed,  these  words: 

The  Northern  man  is  utterly  without  sentiment  or 
warmth  except  in  so  far  as  the  feelings  may  be  turned 
to  his  own  commercial  profit.  He  will  suffer  without 
resentment  any  imputation  cast  upon  the  honour  of 
himself  or  his  loved  ones  that  does  not  bear  with  it 


14G  Sixes  and  Sevens 

the  consequence  of  pecuniary  loss.  In  his  charity, 
he  gives  with  a  hberal  hand;  but  it  must  be  heralded 
with  the  trumpet  and  chronicled  in  brass. 

"Do  you  think  that  picture  is  fairer  than  the  one  you 
saw  of  Colonel  Calhoun  last  night?" 

"The  description,"   said  the   major  frowning,   "is 

—  not  without  grounds.  Some  exag  —  latitude  must 
be  allowed  in  public  speaking." 

"And  in  public  acting,"  replied  Hargraves. 

"That  is  not  the  point,"  persisted  the  major,  un- 
relenting. "It  was  a  personal  caricature.  I  posi- 
tively decline  to  overlook  it,  sir." 

"Major  Talbot,"  said  Hargraves,  with  a  winning 
gmile,  "  I  wish  you  would  understand  me.  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I  never  dreamed  of  insulting  you.  In  my 
profession,  all  life  belongs  to  me.  I  take  what  I  want, 
and  what  I  can,  and  return  it  over  the  footlights. 
Now,  if  you  will,  let's  let  it  go  at  that.  I  came  in  to 
see  you  about  something  else.  We've  been  pretty 
good  friends  for  some  months,  and  I'm  going  to  take 
the  risk  of  offending  you  again,  I  know  you  are  hard 
up  for  money  —  never  mind  how  I  found  out;  a  board- 
ing house  is  no  place  to  keep  such  matters  secret — 
and  I  want  you  to  let  me  help  you  out  of  the  pinch. 
I've  been  there  often  enough  myself.  I've  been 
getting  a  fair  salary  all  the  season,  and  I've  saved 
some  money.     You're  welcome  to  a  couple  hundred 

—  or  even  more  —  until  you  get " 


The  Duplicity  of  Hargraves  147 

"Stop!"  commanded  the  major,  with  his  arm  out- 
stretched. "It  seems  that  my  book  didn't  lie,  after 
all.  You  think  your  money  salve  will  heal  all  the  hurts 
of  honour.  Under  no  circumstances  would  I  accept 
a  loan  from  a  casual  acquaintance;  and  as  to  you,  sir, 
I  would  starve  before  I  would  consider  your  insulting 
offer  of  a  financial  adjustment  of  the  circumstances 
we  have  discussed.  I  beg  to  repeat  my  request  rela- 
tive to  your  quitting  the  apartment." 

Hargraves  took  his  departure  without  another  word. 
He  also  left  the  house  the  same  day,  moving,  as  Mrs. 
Vardeman  explained  at  the  supper  table,  nearer  the 
vicinity  of  the  down-town  theatre,  where  "A  Magno- 
lia Flower"  was  booked  for  a  week's  run. 

Critical  was  the  situation  with  Major  Talbot  and 
Miss  Lydia.  There  was  no  one  in  Washington  to 
whom  the  major's  scruples  allowed  him  to  apply  for  a 
loan.  Miss  Lydia  wrote  a  letter  to  Uncle  Ralph,  but 
it  was  doubtful  whether  that  relative's  constricted 
affairs  would  permit  him  to  furnish  help.  The  major 
was  forced  to  make  an  apologetic  address  to  Mrs. 
Vardeman  regarding  the  delayed  payment  for  board, 
referring  to  "delinquent  rentals"  and  "delayed  re- 
mittances" in  a  rather  confused  strain. 

Deliverance  came  from  an  entirely  unexpected  source. 

Late  one  afternoon  the  door  maid  came  up  and 
announced  an  old  coloured  man  who  wanted  to  see 
Major  Talbot.     The  major  asked  that  he  be  sent  up 


148  Sixes  and  Sevens 

to  his  study.  Soon  an  old  darkey  appeared  in  the 
doorway,  with  his  hat  in  hand,  bowing,  and  scraping 
with  one  clumsy  foot.  He  was  quite  decently  dressed 
in  a  baggy  suit  of  black.  His  big,  coarse  shoes  shone 
with  a  metallic  lustre  suggestive  of  stove  polish. 
His  bushy  wool  was  gray  —  almost  white.  After 
middle  life,  it  is  difficult  to  estimate  the  age  of  a  Negro. 
This  one  might  have  seen  as  many  years  as  had  Major 
Talbot. 

"I  be  bound  you  don't  know  me,  Mars'  Pendleton," 
were  his  first  words. 

The  major  rose  and  came  forward  at  the  old,  famil- 
iar style  of  address.  It  was  one  of  the  old  plantation 
darkeys  without  a  doubt;  but  they  had  been  widely 
scattered,  and  he  could  not  recall  the  voice  or  face. 

"I  don't  believe  I  do,"  he  said  kindly  — "unless  you 
will  assist  my  memory." 

"Don't  you 'member  Cindy's  Mose,  Mars' Pendle- 
ton, what  'migrated  'mediately  after  de  war?  " 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  the  major,  rubbing  his 
forehead  with  the  tips  of  his  fingers.  He  loved  to  recall 
everything  connected  with  those  beloved  days.  "  Cin- 
dy's Mose,"  he  reflected.  "You  worked  among  the 
horses  —  breaking  the  colts.  Yes,  I  remember  now. 
After  the  surrender,  you  took  the  name  of  —  don't 
prompt  me  —  Mitchell,  and  went  to  the  West  —  to 
Nebraska." 

"Yassir,   yassir,"  —  the  old   man's    face   stretched 


The  Duplicity  of  Har graves  149 

with  a  delighted  grin  —  "dat's  him,  dat's  it.  New- 
braska.  Dat's  me  —  Mose  Mitchell.  Old  Uncle 
Mose  Mitchell,  dey  calls  me  now.  Old  mars',  your 
pa,  gimme  a  pah  of  dem  mule  colts  when  I  lef '  fur  to 
staht  me  goin'  with.  You  'member  dem  colts.  Mars' 
Pendleton?" 

"I  don't  seem  to  recall  the  colts,"  said  the  major. 
"You  know  I  was  married  the  first  year  of  the  war  and 
living  at  the  old  Follinsbee  place.  But  sit  down,  sit 
down.  Uncle  Mose.  I'm  glad  to  see  you.  I  hope  you 
have  prospered." 

Uncle  Mose  took  a  chair  and  laid  his  hat  carefully 
on  the  floor  beside  it. 

"Yassir;  of  late  I  done  mouty  famous.  When  I 
first  got  to  Newbraska,  dey  folks  come  all  roun'  me  to 
see  dem  mule  colts.  Dey  ain't  see  no  mules  like  dem 
in  Newbraska.  I  sold  dem  mules  for  three  hundred 
dollars.     Yassir  —  three  hundred. 

"Den  I  open  a  blacksmith  shop,  suh,  and  made  some 
money  and  bought  some  Ian'.  Me  and  my  old  'oman 
done  raised  up  seb'm  chillun,  and  all  doin'  well  'cept 
two  of  'em  what  died.  Fo'  year  ago  a  railroad  come 
along  and  staht  a  town  slam  ag'inst  my  Ian',  and,  suh, 
Mars'  Pendleton,  Uncle  Mose  am  worth  leb'm  thousand 
dollars  in  money,  property,  and  Ian'." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  major  heartily. 
"  Glad  to  hear  it." 

"And  dat  little  baby  of  yo'n,  Mars'  Pendleton  — 


150  Sixes  and  Sevens 

one  what  you  name  Miss  Lyddy  —  I  be  bound  dat 
little  tad  done  growed  up  tell  nobody  wouldn't 
know  her." 

The  major  stepped  to  the  door  and  called:  "Lydia, 
dear,  will  you  come?" 

Miss  Lydia,  looking  quite  grown  up  and  a  little 
worried,  came  in  from  her  room. 

"Dar,  now!  What'd  I  tell  you?  I  knowed  dat 
baby  done  be  plum  growed  up.  You  don't  'member 
Uncle  Mose,  child?" 

"This  is  Aunt  Cindy's  Mose,  Lydia,"  explained  the 
major.  "He  left  Sunnymead  for  the  West  when  you 
were  two  years  old." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Lydia,  "I  can  hardly  be  expected 
to  remember  you.  Uncle  Mose,  at  that  age.  And,  as 
you  say,  I'm  'plum  growed  up,'  and  was  a  blessed  long 
time  ago.  But  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  even  if  I  can't 
remember  you." 

And  she  was.  And  so  was  the  major.  Something 
alive  and  tangible  had  come  to  link  them  with  the 
happy  past.  The  three  sat  and  talked  over  the  olden 
times,  the  major  and  Uncle  Mose  correcting  or  prompt- 
ing each  other  as  they  reviewed  the  plantation  scenes 
and  days. 

The  major  inquired  what  the  old  man  was  doing 
so  far  from  his  home. 

"Uncle  Mose  am  a  delicate,"  he  explained,  "to  de 
grand  Baptis'  convention  in  dis  city.     I  never  preached 


The  Duplicity  of  Har graves  151 

none,  but  bein'  a  residin'  elder  in  de  church,  and  able 
fur  to  pay  my  own  expenses,  dey  sent  me  along." 

"And  how  did  you  know  we  were  in  Washington?" 
inquired  Miss  Lydia. 

"Dey's  a  cullud  man  works  in  de  hotel  whar  I  stops, 
what  comes  from  Mobile.  He  told  me  he  seen  Mars' 
Pendleton  comin'  outen  dish  here  house  one  mawnin'. 

"What  I  come  fur,"  continued  Uncle  Mose,  reaching 
into  his  pocket  —  "besides  de  sight  of  home  folks  — 
was  to  pay  Mars'  Pendleton  what  I  owes  him." 

"Owe  me?"  said  the  major,  in  surprise. 

"Yassir  —  three  hundred  dollars."  He  handed 
the  major  a  roll  of  bills.  "When  I  lef  old  mars'  says: 
'Take  dem  mule  colts,  Mose,  and,  if  it  be  so  you  gits 
able,  pay  fur  'em'.  Yassir  —  dem  was  his  words. 
De  war  had  done  lef  old  mars'  po'  hisself.  Old  mars' 
bein'  'long  ago  dead,  de  debt  descends  to  Mars'  Pen- 
dleton. Three  hundred  dollars.  Uncle  Mose  is  plenty 
able  to  pay  now.  When  dat  railroad  buy  my  Ian'  I 
laid  off  to  pay  fur  dem  mules.  Count  de  money,  Mars' 
Pendleton.    Dat's  what  I  sold  dem  mules  fur.    Yassir." 

Tears  were  in  Major  Talbot's  eyes.  He  took  Uncle 
Mose's  hand  and  laid  his  other  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Dear,  faithful,  old  servitor,"  he  said  in  an  unsteady 
voice,  "I  don't  mind  saying  to  you  that  'Mars'  Pen- 
dleton' spent  his  last  dollar  in  the  world  a  week  ago. 
We  will  accept  this  money.  Uncle  Mose,  since,  in  a  way, 
it  is  a  sort  of  payment,  as  well  as  a  token  of  the  loyalty 


152  Sixes  and  Sevens 

and  devotion  of  the  old  regime.  Lydia,  my  dear,  take 
the  money.  You  are  better  fitted  than  I  to  manage 
its  expenditure." 

"Take  it,  honey,"  said  Uncle  Mose.  "Hit  belongs 
to  you.     Hit's  Talbot  money." 

After  Uncle  Mose  had  gone.  Miss  Lydia  had  a  good 
cry  —  for  joy;  and  the  major  turned  his  face  to  a 
corner,  and  smoked  his  clay  pipe  volcanically. 

The  succeeding  days  saw  the  Talbots  restored  to 
peace  and  ease.  Miss  Lydia's  face  lost  its  worried 
look.  The  major  appeared  in  a  new  frock  coat,  in 
which  he  looked  like  a  wax  figure  personifying  the 
memory  of  his  golden  age.  Another  publisher  who 
read  the  manuscript  of  the  "Anecdotes  and  Reminis- 
cences" thought  that,  with  a  little  retouching  and 
toning  down  of  the  high  lights,  he  could  make  a  really 
bright  and  salable  volume  of  it.  Altogether,  the  situ- 
ation was  comfortable,  and  not  without  the  touch 
of  hope  that  is  often  sweeter  than  arrived  blessings. 

One  day,  about  a  week  after  their  piece  of  good  luck, 
a  maid  brought  a  letter  for  Miss  Lydia  to  her  room. 
The  postmark  showed  that  it  was  from  New  York. 
Not  knowing  any  one  there.  Miss  Lydia,  in  a  mild 
flutter  of  wonder,  sat  down  by  her  table  and  opened 
the  letter  with  her  scissors.     This  was  what  she  read: 

Dear  Miss  Talbot: 

I  thought  you  might  be  glad  to  learn  of  my  good 
fortune.     I  have  received  and  accepted  an  offer  of 


The  Duplicity  of  Hargraves  153 

two  hundred  dollars  per  week  by  a  New  York  stock 
company  to  play  Colonel  Calhoun  in  "A  Magnolia 
Flower." 

There  is  something  else  I  wanted  you  to  know.  I 
guess  you'd  better  not  tell  Major  Talbot.  I  was 
anxious  to  make  him  some  amends  for  the  great  help 
he  was  to  me  in  studying  the  part,  and  for  the  bad 
humour  he  was  in  about  it.  He  refused  to  let  me,  so 
I  did  it  anyhow.  I  could  easily  spare  the  three 
hundred. 

Sincerely  yours, 
H.  Hopkins  Haegeaves. 
P.  S.     How  did  I  play  Uncle  Mose.? 

Major  Talbot,  passing  through  the  hall,  saw  Miss 
Lydia's  door  open  and  stopped. 

"Any  mail  for  us  this  morning,  Lydia,  dear.?"  he 
asked. 

Miss  Lydia  slid  the  letter  beneath  a  fold  of  her  dress. 

"The  Mobile  Chronicle  came,"  she  said  promptly. 
"It's  on  the  table  in  your  study." 


XIV 
LEt  ME  FEEL  YOUR  PULSE 

oO  I  went  to  a  doctor. 

"How  long  has  it  been  since  you  took  any  alcohol 
into  your  system?"  he  asked. 

Turning  my  head  sidewise,  I  answered,  "Oh,  quite 
awhile." 

He  was  a  young  doctor,  somewhere  between  twenty 
and  forty.  He  wore  heliotrope  socks,  but  he  looked 
like  Napoleon.     I  liked  him  immensely. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "I  am  going  to  show  you  the  effect 
of  alcohol  upon  your  circulation."  I  think  it  was 
"circulation"  he  said;  though  it  may  have  been 
"advertising." 

He  bared  my  left  arm  to  the  elbow,  brought  out  a 
bottle  of  whiskey,  and  gave  me  a  drink.  He  began  to 
look  more  like  Napoleon.  I  began  to  like  him 
better. 

Then  he  put  a  tight  compress  on  my  upper  arm, 
stopped  my  pulse  with  his  fingers,  and  squeezed  a 
rubber  bulb  connected  with  an  apparatus  on  a  stand 
that  looked  like  a  thermometer.  The  mercurj^ 
jumped  up  and  down  without  seeming  to  stop  any- 

154 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  155 

where;  but  the  doctor  said  it  registered  two  hundred 
and  thirty-seven  or  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  or 
some  such  number. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "you  see  what  alcohol  does  to 
the    blood-pressure." 

"It's  marvellous,"  said  I,  "but  do  you  think  it  a 
sufficient  test.?  Have  one  on  me,  and  let's  try  the 
other   arm."     But,   no! 

Then  he  grasped  my  hand.  I  thought  I  was  doomed 
and  he  was  saying  good-bye.  But  all  he  wanted  to 
do  was  to  jab  a  needle  into  the  end  of  a  finger  and  com- 
pare the  red  drop  with  a  lot  of  fifty-cent  poker  chips 
that  he  had  fastened  to  a  card. 

"It's  the  haemoglobin  test,"  he  explained.  "The 
colour  of  your  blood  is  wrong." 

"Well,"  said  I,  "I  know  it  should  be  blue;  but 
this  is  a  country  of  mix-ups.  Some  of  my  ancestors 
were  cavaliers;  but  they  got  thick  with  some  people 
on  Nantucket  Island,  so " 

"I  mean,"  said  the  doctor,  "that  the  shade  of  red 
is  too  light." 

"Oh,"  said  I,  "it's  a  case  of  matching  instead  of 
matches." 

The  doctor  then  pounded  me  severely  in  the  region 
of  the  chest.  When  he  did  that  I  don't  know  whether 
he  reminded  me  most  of  Napoleon  or  Battling  or  Lord 
Nelson.  Then  he  looked  grave  and  mentioned  a 
string  of  grievances  that  the  flesh  is  heir  to  —  mostly 


156  Sixes  and  Sevens 

ending  in  "itis."  I  immediately  paid  him  fifteen 
dollars  on  account. 

"Is  or  are  it  or  some  or  any  of  them  necessarily 
fatal?"  I  asked.  I  thought  my  connection  with  the 
matter  justified  my  manifesting  a  certain  amount 
of  interest. 

"All  of  them,"  he  answered  cheerfully.  "But 
their  progress  may  be  arrested.  With  care  and  proper 
continuous  treatment  you  may  Uve  to  be  eighty-five 
or  ninety." 

I  began  to  think  of  the  doctor's  bill.  "Eighty- 
five  would  be  sufficient,  I  am  sure,"  was  my  comment. 
I  paid  him  ten  dollars  more  on  account. 

"The  first  thing  to  do,"  he  said,  with  renewed 
animation,  "is  to  find  a  sanitarium  where  you  will 
get  a  complete  rest  for  a  while,  and  allow  your  nerves 
to  get  into  a  better  condition.  I  myself  will  go  with 
you  and  select  a  suitable  one." 

So  he  took  me  to  a  mad-house  in  the  Catskills.  It 
was  on  a  bare  mountain  frequented  only  by  infrequent 
frequenters.  You  could  see  nothing  but  stones  and 
boulders,  some  patches  of  snow,  and  scattered  pine 
trees.  The  young  physician  in  charge  was  most 
agreeable.  He  gave  me  a  stimulant  without  applying 
a  compress  to  the  arm.  It  was  luncheon  time,  and 
we  were  invited  to  partake.  There  were  about 
twenty  inmates  at  little  tables  in  the  dining  room. 
The  young  physician  in  charge  came  to  our  table 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  157 

and  said:  "It  is  a  custom  with  our  guests  not  to 
regard  themselves  as  patients,  but  merely  as  tired 
ladies  and  gentlemen  taking  a  rest.  Whatever 
slight  maladies  they  may  have  are  never  alluded  to 
in    conversation." 

My  doctor  called  loudly  to  a  waitress  to  bring  some 
phosphoglycerate  of  lime  hash,  dog-bread,  bromo- 
seltzer  pancakes,  and  nux  vomica  tea  for  my  repast. 
Then  a  sound  arose  like  a  sudden  wind  storm  among 
pine  trees.  It  was  produced  by  every  guest  in  the 
room  whispering  loudly,  "Neurasthenia!"  —  except 
one  man  with  a  nose,  whom  I  distinctly  heard  say, 
"Chronic  alcoholism."  I  hope  to  meet  him  again. 
The  physician  in  charge  turned  and  walked  away. 

An  hour  or  so  after  luncheon  he  conducted  us  to 
the  workshop  —  say  fifty  yards  from  the  house. 
Thither  the  guests  had  been  conducted  by  the  physi- 
cian in  charge's  understudy  and  sponge-holder  —  a 
man  with  feet  and  a  blue  sweater.  He  was  so  tall 
that  I  was  not  sure  he  had  a  face;  but  the  Armour 
Packing  Company  would  have  been  delighted  with 
his   hands. 

"Here,"  said  the  physician  in  charge,  "our  guests 
find  relaxation  from  past  mental  worries  by  devoting 
themselves  to  physical  labour  —  recreation,  in  reality." 

There  were  turning-lathes,  carpenters'  outfits,  clay- 
modelling  tools,  spinning-wheels,  weaving-frames, 
treadmills,  bass  drums,  enlarged-crayon-portrait  ap- 


158  Sixes  and  Sevens 

paratuses,  blacksmith  forges,  and  everything,  seem- 
ingly, that  could  interest  the  paying  lunatic 
guests  of  a  first-rate  sanitarium. 

"The  lady  making  mud  pies  in  the  corner,"  whis- 
pered the  physician  in  charge,"  is  no  other  than  —  Lula 
Lulington,  the  authoress  of  the  novel  entitled  'Why 
Love  Loves.'  What  she  is  doing  now  is  simply 
to  rest  her  mind  after  performing  that  piece  of 
work." 

I  had  seen  the  book.  "Why  doesn't  she  do  it 
by  writing  another  one  instead?"  I  asked. 

As  you  see,  I  wasn't  as  far  gone  as  they  thought 
I  was. 

"The  gentleman  pouring  water  through  the  funnel," 
continued  the  physician  in  charge,  "is  a  Wall  Street 
broker  broken  down  from  overwork." 

I  buttoned  my  coat. 

Others  he  pointed  out  were  architects  playing  with 
Noah's  arks,  ministers  reading  Darwin's  "Theory  of 
Evolution,"  lawyers  sawing  wood,  tired-out  society 
ladies  talking  Ibsen  to  the  blue-sweatered  sponge- 
holder,  a  neurotic  millionaire  lying  asleep  on  the 
floor,  and  a  prominent  artist  drawing  a  little  red  wagon 
around    the    room. 

"You  look  pretty  strong,"  said  the  physician  in 
charge  to  me.  "I  think  the  best  mental  relaxation 
for  you  would  be  throwing  small  boulders  over  the 
mountainside  and  then  bringing  them  up  again." 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  159 

I  was  a  hundred  yards  away  before  my  doctor 
overtook   me. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"The  matter  is,"  said  I,  "that  there  are  no  aero- 
planes handy.  So  I  am  going  to  merrily  and  hastily 
jog  the  foot-pathway  to  yon  station  and  catch  the 
first  unlimited-soft-coal  express  back  to  town." 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  "perhaps  you  are  right. 
This  seems  hardly  the  suitable  place  for  you. 
But  what  you  need  is  rest  —  absolute  rest  and 
exercise." 

That  night  I  went  to  a  hotel  in  the  city,  and  said 
to  the  clerk:  "What  I  need  is  absolute  rest  and 
exercise.  Can  you  give  me  a  room  with  one  of  thos€ 
tall  folding  beds  in  it,  and  a  relay  of  bellboys  to 
work  it  up  and  down  while  I  rest.'" 

The  clerk  rubbed  a  speck  off  one  of  his  finger  nails 
and  glanced  sidewise  at  a  tall  man  in  a  white  hat 
sitting  in  the  lobby.  That  man  came  over  and  asked 
me  politely  if  I  had  seen  the  shrubbery  at  the  west 
entrance.  I  had  not,  so  he  showed  it  to  me  and  then 
looked  me  over. 

"I  thought  you  had  'em,"  he  said,  not  unkindly, 
"but  I  guess  you're  all  right.  You'd  better  go  see  a 
doctor,  old  man." 

A  week  afterward  my  doctor  tested  my  blood 
pressure  again  without  the  preliminary  stimulant. 
He  looked  to  me  a  little  less  like  Napoleon.     And  his 


160  Sixes  and  Sevens 

socks  were  of  a  shade  of  tan  that  did  not  appeal 
to  me. 

"What  you  need,"  he  decided,  "is  sea  air  and 
companionship." 

"Would  a  mermaid — "  I  began;  but  he  slipped 
on  his  professional  manner. 

"I  myself,"  he  said,  "will  take  you  to  the  Hotel 
Bonair  off  the  coast  of  Long  Island  and  see  that  you 
get  in  good  shape.  It  is  a  quiet,  comfortable  resort 
where  you  will  soon  recuperate." 

The  Hotel  Bonair  proved  to  be  a  nine-hundred- 
room  fashionable  hostelry  on  an  island  off  the  main 
shore.  Everybody  who  did  not  dress  for  dinner  was 
shoved  into  a  side  dining-room  and  given  only  a  terrapin 
and  champagne  table  d'hote.  The  bay  was  a  great 
stamping  ground  for  wealthy  yachtsmen.  The  Corsair 
anchored  there  the  day  we  arrived.  I  saw  Mr.  Mor- 
gan standing  on  deck  eating  a  cheese  sandwich  and 
gazing  longingly  at  the  hotel.  Still,  it  was  a  very  inex- 
pensive place.  Nobody  could  afford  to  pay  their  prices. 
When  you  went  away  you  simply  left  your  baggage, 
stole  a  skiff,  and  beat  it  for  the  mainland  in  the  night. 

When  I  had  been  there  one  day  I  got  a  pad  of 
monogrammed  telegraph  blanks  at  the  clerk's  desk 
and  began  to  wire  to  all  my  friends  for  get-away  money. 
My  doctor  and  I  played  one  game  of  croquet  on  the 
golf  links  and  w^ent  to  sleep  on  the  lawn. 

WTien   we  got  back  to  town  a  thought  seemed  to 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  161 

occur  to  him  suddenly,  "By  the  way,"  he  asked, 
"how  do  you  feel?" 

"Helieved  of  very  much,"  I  replied. 

Now  a  consulting  physician  is  different.  He 
isn't  exactly  sure  whether  he  is  to  be  paid  or  not, 
and  this  uncertainty  insures  you  either  the  most 
careful  or  the  most  careless  attention.  My  doctor 
took  me  to  see  a  consulting  physician.  He  made  a 
poor  guess  and  gave  me  careful  attention.  I  liked 
him  immensely.  He  put  me  through  some  coordina- 
tion exercises. 

"Have  you  a  pain  in  the  back  of  your  head?"  he 
asked.     I  told  him  I  had  not. 

"Shut  your  eyes,"  he  ordered,  "put  your  feet  close 
together,  and  jump  backward  as  far  as  you  can." 

I  always  was  a  good  backward  jumper  with  my 
eyes  shut,  so  I  obeyed.  My  head  struck  the  edge  of 
the  bathroom  door,  which  had  been  left  open  and  was 
only  three  feet  away.  The  doctor  was  very  sorry. 
He  had  overlooked  the  fact  that  the  door  was  open. 
He  closed  it. 

"Now  touch  your  nose  with  your  right  forefinger," 
he  said. 

"Where  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"On  your  face,"  said  he. 

"I  mean  my  right  forefinger,"  I  explained. 

"Oh,  excuse  me,"  said  he.  He  reopened  the  bath- 
room door,  and  I  took  my  finger  out  of  the  crack  of  it. 


162  Sixes  and  Sevens 

After  I  had  performed  the  marvellous   digito-nasal 
feat  I  said: 

"I  do  not  wish  to  deceive  you  as  to  symptoms. 
Doctor;  I  really  have  something  like  a  pain  in  the 
back  of  my  head."  He  ignored  the  symptom  and 
examined  my  heart  carefully  with  a  latest-popular- 
air-penny-in-the-slot  ear-trumpet.  I  felt  like  a  ballad. 
"Now,"  he  said,  "gallop  like  a  horse  for  about 
five  minutes  around  the  room." 

I  gave  the  best  imitation  I  could  of  a  disqualified 
Percheron  being  led  out  of  Madison  Square  Garden. 
Then,  without  dropping  in  a  penny,  he  listened  to 
my  chest  again. 

"No  glanders  in  our  family.  Doc,"  I  said. 
The   consulting  physician   held   up   his   forefinger 
within  three  inches  of  my  nose.     "Look  at  my  finger," 
he    commanded. 

"Did  you  ever  try  Pears' "  I  began;  but  he 

went  on  with  his  test  rapidly. 

"Now  look  across  the  bay.  At  my  finger.  Across 
the  bay.  At  my  finger.  At  my  finger.  Across  the 
bay.  Across  the  bay.  At  my  finger.  Across  the 
bay."     This  for  about  three  minutes. 

He  explained  that  this  was  a  test  of  the  action  of 
the  brain.  It  seemed  easy  to  me.  I  never  once 
mistook  his  finger  for  the  bay.  I'll  bet  that  if  he  had 
used  the  phrases:  "Gaze,  as  it  were,  unpreoccupied, 
outward  —  or  rather  laterallv  —  in  the  direction  of 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  163 

the  horizon,  underlaid,  so  to  speak,  with  the  adjacent 
fluid  inlet,"  and  "Now,  returning  —  or  rather,  in  a 
manner,  withdrawing  your  attention,  bestow  it  upon 
my  upraised  digit"  —  I'll  bet,  I  say,  that  Henry 
James  himself  could  have  passed  the  examination. 

After  asking  me  if  I  had  ever  had  a  grand  uncle 
with  curvature  of  the  spine  or  a  cousin  with  swelled 
ankles,  the  two  doctors  retired  to  the  bathroom  and 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bath  tub  for  their  consultation. 
I  ate  an  apple,  and  gazed  first  at  my  finger  and  then 
across  the  bay. 

The  doctors  came  out  looking  grave.  More:  they 
looked  tombstones  and  Tennessee-papers-please-copy. 
They  wrote  out  a  diet  list  to  which  I  was  to  be  re- 
stricted. It  had  everything  that  I  had  ever  heard 
of  to  eat  on  it,  except  snails.  And  I  never  eat  a  snail 
unless  it  overtakes  me  and  bites  me  first. 

"You  must  follow  this  diet  strictly,"  said  the 
doctors. 

"I'd  follow  it  a  mile  if  I  could  get  one-tenth  of  what's 
on  it,"  I  answered. 

"Of  next  importance,"  they  went  on,  "is  outdoor 
air  and  exercise.  And  here  is  a  prescription  that 
will  be  of  great  benefit  to  you." 

Then  all  of  us  took  something.  They  took  their 
hats,  and  I  took  my  departure. 

I  went  to  a  druggist  and  showed  him  the  prescrip- 
tion. 


164  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"It  will  be  $2,87  for  an  ounce  bottle,"  he  said. 

"Will  you  give  me  a  piece  of  your  wrapping  cord?" 
said  I. 

I  made  a  hole  in  the  prescription,  ran  the  cord 
through  it,  tied  it  around  my  neck,  and  tucked  it 
inside.  All  of  us  have  a  little  superstition,  and  mine 
runs  to  a  confidence  in  amulets. 

Of  course  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with  me, 
but  I  was  very  ill.  I  couldn't  work,  sleep,  eat,  or 
bowl.  The  only  way  I  could  get  any  sympathy  was 
to  go  without  shaving  for  four  days.  Even  then 
somebody  would  say:  "Old  man,  you  look  as  hardy 
as  a  pine  knot.  Been  up  for  a  jaunt  in  the  Maine 
woods,  eh?" 

Then,  suddenly,  I  remembered  that  I  must  have 
outdoor  air  and  exercise.  So  I  went  down  South  to 
John's.  John  is  an  approximate  relative  by  verdict 
of  a  preacher  standing  with  a  little  book  in  his  hands 
in  a  bower  of  chrysanthemums  while  a  hundred 
thousand  people  looked  on.  John  has  a  country 
house  seven  miles  from  Pineville.  It  is  at  an  altitude 
and  on  the  Blue  Ridge  Mountains  in  a  state  too 
dignified  to  be  dragged  into  this  controversy.  John 
is  mica,  which  is  more  valuable  and  clearer  than 
gold. 

He  met  me  at  Pineville,  and  we  took  the  trolley  car 
to  his  home.  It  is  a  big,  neighbourless  cottage  on  a 
hill  surrounded  by  a  hundred  mountains.     We  got 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  165 

off  at  his  little  private  station,  where  John's  family 
and  Amaryllis  met  and  greeted  us.  Amaryllis  looked 
at  me  a  trifle  anxiously. 

A  rabbit  came  bounding  across  the  hill  between 
us  and  the  house.  I  threw  down  my  suit-case  and 
pursued  it  hotfoot.  After  I  had  run  twenty  yards 
and  seen  it  disappear,  I  sat  down  on  the  grass  and 
wept  disconsolately. 

"I  can't  catch  a  rabbit  any  more,"  I  sobbed.  "I'm 
of  no  further  use  in  the  world.     I  may  as  well  be  dead." 

"Oh,  what  is  it  —  what  is  it,  Brother  John?"  I 
heard  Amaryllis  say. 

"Nerves  a  little  unstrung,"  said  John,  in  his  calm 
way.  "Don't  worry.  Get  up,  you  rabbit-chaser, 
and  come  on  to  the  house  before  the  biscuits  get  cold." 
It  was  about  twilight,  and  the  mountains  came  up 
nobly  to  Miss  Murfree's  descriptions  of  them. 

Soon  after  dinner  I  announced  that  I  believed  I 
could  sleep  for  a  year  or  two,  including  legal  holidays. 
So  I  was  shown  to  a  room  as  big  and  cool  as  a  flower 
garden,  where  there  was  a  bed  as  broad  as  a  lawn. 
Soon  afterward  the  remainder  of  the  household  re- 
tired, and  then  there  fell  upon  the  land  a  silence. 

I  had  not  heard  a  silence  before  in  years.  It  was 
absolute.  I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow  and  listened 
to  it.  Sleep!  I  thought  that  if  I  only  could  hear  a 
star  twinkle  or  a  blade  of  grass  sharpen  itself  I  could 
compose  myself  to  rest.     I  thought  once  that  I  heard 


166  Sixes  and  Sevens 

a  sound  like  the  sail  of  a  catboat  flapping  as  it  veered 
about  in  a  breeze,  but  I  decided  that  it  was  probably 
only  a  tack  in  the  carpet.     Still  I  listened. 

Suddenly  some  belated  little  bird  alighted  upon  the 
window-sill,  and,  in  what  he  no  doubt  considered 
sleepy  tones,  enunciated  the  noise  generally  translated 
as  "cheep!" 

I  leaped  into  the  air. 

"Hey!  what's  the  matter  down  there.'*"  called 
John  from  his  room  above  mine. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  I  answered,  "except  that  I  acci- 
dentally bumped  my  head  against  the  ceiling." 

The  next  morning  I  went  out  on  the  porch  and 
looked  at  the  mountains.  There  were  forty-seven 
of  them  in  sight.  I  shuddered,  went  into  the  big 
hall  sitting  room  of  the  house,  selected  "Pancoast's 
Family  Practice  of  Medicine"  from  a  bookcase,  and 
began  to  read.  John  came  in,  took  the  book  away 
from  me,  and  led  me  outside.  He  has  a  farm  of  three 
hundred  acres  furnished  with  the  usual  complement 
of  barns,  mules,  peasantry,  and  harrows  with  three 
front  teeth  broken  off.  I  had  seen  such  things  in  my 
childhood,  and  my  heart  began  to  sink. 

Then  John  spoke  of  alfalfa,  and  I  brightened  at 
once.  "Oh,  yes,"  said  I,  "wasn't  she  in  the  chorus 
of  —  let's  see " 

"  Green,  you  know,"  said  John,  "  and  tender,  and  you 
plow  it  under  after  the  first  season." 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  167 

"I  know,"  said  I,  "and  the  grass  grows  over  her." 

"Right,"  said  John.  "You  know  something  about 
farming,  after  all." 

"I  know  something  of  some  farmers,"  said  I,  "and 
a  sure  scythe  will  mow  them  down  some  day." 

On  the  way  back  to  the  house  a  beautiful  and  inex- 
plicable creature  walked  across  our  path.  I  stopped 
irresistibly  fascinated,  gazing  at  it.  John  waited 
patiently,  smoking  his  cigarette.  He  is  a  modern 
farmer.  After  ten  minutes  he  said:  "Are  you  going 
to  stand  there  looking  at  that  chicken  all  day.''  Break- 
fast is  nearly  ready." 

"A  chicken?"  said  I. 

"A  White  Orpington  hen,  if  you  want  to  particu- 
larize." 

"A  White  Orpington  hen?"  I  repeated,  with  intense 
interest.  The  fowl  walked  slowly  away  with  graceful 
dignity,  and  I  followed  like  a  child  after  the  Pied 
Piper.  Five  minutes  more  were  allowed  me  by  John, 
and  then  he  took  me  by  the  sleeve  and  conducted 
me  to  breakfast. 

After  I  had  been  there  a  week  I  began  to  grow 
alarmed.  I  was  sleeping  and  eating  well  and  actually 
beginning  to  enjoy  life.  For  a  man  in  my  desperate 
condition  that  would  never  do.  So  I  sneaked  down 
to  the  trolley-car  station,  took  the  car  for  Pineville, 
and  went  to  see  one  of  the  best  physicians  in  town. 
By  this  time  I  knew  exactly  what  to  do  when  I  needed 


168  Sixes  and  Sevens 

medical  treatment.  I  hung  my  hat  on  the  back  of  a 
chair,  and  said  rapidly: 

"Doctor,  I  have  cirrhosis  of  the  heart,  indurated 
arteries,  neurasthenia,  neuritis,  acute  indigestion,  and 
convalescence.  I  am  going  to  live  on  a  strict  diet. 
I  shall  also  take  a  tepid  bath  at  night  and  a  cold  one 
in  the  morning.  I  shall  endeavour  to  be  cheerful, 
and  fix  my  mind  on  pleasant  subjects.  In  the  way 
of  drugs  I  intend  to  take  a  phosphorous  pill  three 
times  a  day,  preferably  after  meals,  and  a  tonic  com- 
posed of  the  tinctures  of  gentian,  cinchona,  calisaya, 
and  cardamom  compound.  Into  eaqh  teaspoonful 
of  this  I  shall  mix  tincture  of  nux  vomica,  beginning 
with  one  drop  and  increasing  it  a  drop  each  day  until 
the  maximum  dose  is  reached.  I  shall  drop  this  with 
a  medicine-dropper,  which  can  be  procured  at  a  trifling 
cost  at  any  pharmacy.     Good  morning." 

I  took  my  hat  and  walked  out.  After  I  had  closed 
the  door  I  remembered  something  that  I  had  forgotten 
to  say.  I  opened  it  again.  The  doctor  had  not  moved 
from  where  he  had  been  sitting,  but  he  gave  a  slightly 
nervous  start  when  he  saw  me  again. 

"I  forgot  to  mention,"  said  I,  "that  I  shall  also 
take  absolute  rest  and  exercise." 

After  this  consultation  I  felt  much  better.  The 
reestablishing  in  my  mind  of  the  fact  that  I  was  hope- 
lessly ill  gave  me  so  much  satisfaction  that  I  almost 
became  gloomy  again.     There  is  nothing  more  alarm- 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  169 

ing  to  a  neurasthenic  than  to  feel  himself  growing  well 
and  cheerful. 

John  looked  after  me  carefully.  After  I  had  evinced 
so  much  interest  in  his  White  Orpington  chicken  he 
tried  his  best  to  divert  my  mind,  and  was  particular 
to  lock  his  hen  house  of  nights.  Gradually  the  tonic 
mountain  air,  the  v/holesome  food,  and  the  daily 
walks  among  the  hills  so  alleviated  my  malady  that 
I  became  utterly  wretched  and  despondent.  I  heard 
of  a  country  doctor  who  lived  in  the  mountains  near- 
by, I  went  to  see  him  and  told  him  the  whole  story. 
He  was  a  gray-bearded  man  with  clear,  blue,  wrinkled 
eyes,  in  a  home-made  suit  of  gray  jeans. 

In  order  to  save  time  I  diagnosed  my  case,  touched 
my  nose  with  my  right  forefinger,  struck  myself 
below  the  knee  to  make  my  foot  kick,  sounded  my 
chest,  stuck  out  my  tongue,  and  asked  him  the  price 
of  cemetery  lots  in  Pineville. 

He  lit  his  pipe  and  looked  at  me  for  about  three 
minutes.  "Brother,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "you 
are  in  a  mighty  bad  way.  There's  a  chance  for  you 
to  pull  through,  but  it's  a  mighty  slim  one." 

"What  can  it  be.''"  I  asked  eagerly.  "I  have  taken 
arsenic  and  gold,  phosphorus,  exercise,  uux  vomica, 
hydrotherapeutic  baths,  rest,  excitement,  codein,  and 
ai'omatic  spirits  of  ammonia.  Is  there  anything  left 
in  the  pharmacopoeia?  " 

"Somewhere  in  these  mountains,"  said  the  doctor, 


170  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"there's  a  plant  growing  —  a  flowering  plant  that'll 
cure  you,  and  it's  about  the  only  thing  that  will.  It's 
of  a  kind  that's  as  old  as  the  world;  but  of  late  it's 
powerful  scarce  and  hard  to  find.  You  and  I  will 
have  to  hunt  it  up.  I'm  not  engaged  in  active  prac- 
tice now:  I'm  getting  along  in  years;  but  I'll  take 
your  case.  You'll  have  to  come  every  day  in  the 
afternoon  and  help  me  hunt  for  this  plant  till  we  find 
it.  The  city  doctors  may  know  a  lot  about  new  scien- 
tific things,  but  they  don't  know  much  about  the 
cures  that  nature  carries  around  in  her  saddle- 
bags." 

So  every  day  the  old  doctor  and  I  hunted  the  cure- 
all  plant  among  the  mountains  and  valleys  of  the 
Blue  Ridge.  Together  we  toiled  up  steep  heights 
so  slippery  with  fallen  autumn  leaves  that  we  had 
to  catch  every  sapling  and  branch  within  our  reach 
to  save  us  from  falling.  We  waded  through  gorges 
and  chasms,  breast-deep  with  laurel  and  ferns;  we 
followed  the  banks  of  mountain  streams  for  miles; 
we  wound  our  way  like  Indians  through  brakes  of 
pine — road  side,  hill  side,  river  side,  mountain  side  we 
explored  in  our  search  for  the  miraculous  plant. 

As  the  old  doctor  said,  it  must  have  grown  scarce 
and  hard  to  find.  But  we  followed  our  quest.  Day 
by  day  we  plumbed  the  valleys,  scaled  the  heights, 
and  tramped  the  plateaus  in  search  of  the  miraculous 
plant.     Mountain-bred,  he  never  seemed  to  tire.    I 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  171 

often  reached  home  too  fatigued  to  do  anything  except 
fall  into  bed  and  sleep  until  morning.  This  we  kept 
up  for  a  month. 

One  evening  after  I  had  returned  from  a  six-mile 
tramp  with  the  old  doctor,  Amaryllis  and  I  took  a 
little  walk  under  the  trees  near  the  road.  We  looked 
at  the  mountains  drawing  their  royal-purple  robes 
around  them  for  their  night's  repose. 

"I'm  glad  you're  well  again,"  she  said.  "When 
you  first  came  you  frightened  me.  I  thought  you 
were  really  ill." 

"Well  again!"  I  almost  shrieked.  "Do  you  know 
that  I  have  only  one  chance  in  a  thousand  to  live?" 

Amaryllis  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  "Why," 
said  she,  "you  are  as  strong  as  one  of  the  plough- 
mules,  you  sleep  ten  or  twelve  hours  every  night, 
and  you  are  eating  us  out  of  house  and  home.  What 
more  do  you  want?" 

"I  tell  you,"  said  I,  "that  unless  we  find  the  magic  — 
that  is,  the  plant  we  are  looking  for  —  in  time,  nothing 
can  save  me.     The  doctor  tells  me  so." 

"What  doctor?" 

"Doctor  Tatum  —  the  old  doctor  who  lives  half- 
way up  Black  Oak  Mountain.  Do  you  know 
him?" 

"I  have  known  him  since  I  was  able  to  talk.  And 
is  that  where  you  go  every  day  —  is  it  he  who  takes 
you  on  these  long  walks  and  climbs  that  have  brought 


172  Sixes  and  Sevens 

back  your  health  and  strength?  God  bless  the  old 
doctor." 

Just  then  the  old  doctor  himself  drove  slowly  down 
the  road  in  his  rickety  old  buggy.  I  waved  my  hand 
at  him  and  shouted  that  I  would  be  on  hand  the  next 
day  at  the  usual  time.  He  stopped  his  horse  and 
called  to  Amaryllis  to  come  out  to  him.  They  talked 
for  five  minutes  while  I  waited.  Then  the  old  doctor 
drove  on. 

When  we  got  to  the  house  Amaryllis  lugged  out  an 
encyclopaedia  and  sought  a  word  in  it.  "The  doctor 
said,"  she  told  me,  "that  you  needn't  call  any  more 
as  a  patient,  but  he'd  be  glad  to  see  you  any  time  as  a 
friend.  And  then  he  told  me  to  look  up  my  name 
in  the  encyclopedia  and  tell  you  what  it  means.  It 
seems  to  be  the  name  of  a  genus  of  flowering  plants, 
and  also  the  name  of  a  country  girl  in  Theocritus  and 
Virgil.  WTiat  do  you  suppose  the  doctor  meant  by 
that?" 

"I  know  what  he  meant,"  said  I.  "I  know 
now." 

A  word  to  a  brother  who  may  have  come  under  the 
spell  of  the  unquiet  Lady  Neurasthenia. 

The  formula  was  true.  Even  though  gropingly  at 
times,  the  physicians  of  the  walled  cities  had  put  their 
fingers  upon  the  specific  medicament. 

And  so  for  the  exercise  one  is  referred  to  good  Doctor 
Tatum  on  Black  Oak  Mountain  —  take  the  road  to 


Let  Me  Feel  Your  Pulse  173 

your  right  at  the  Methodist  meeting  house  in  the 
pine-grove. 

Absolute  rest  and  exercise! 

What  rest  more  remedial  than  to  sit  with  Amaryllis 
in  the  shade,  and,  with  a  sixth  sense,  read  the  wordless 
Theocritan  idyl  of  the  gold-bannered  blue  mountains 
marching  orderly  into  the  dormitories  of  the  night? 


XV 

OCTOBER  AND  JUNE 

1  HE  Captain  gazed  gloomily  at  his  sword  that  hung 
upon  the  wall.  In  the  closet  near  by  was  stored  his 
faded  uniform,  stained  and  worn  by  weather  and 
service.  What  a  long,  long  time  it  seemed  since  those 
old  days  of  war's  alarms! 

And  now,  veteran  that  he  was  of  his  country's 
strenuous  times,  he  had  been  reduced  to  abject  sur- 
render by  a  woman's  soft  eyes  and  smiling  lips.  As 
he  sat  in  his  quiet  room  he  held  in  his  hand  the  letter 
he  had  just  received  from  her  —  the  letter  that  had 
caused  him  to  wear  that  look  of  gloom.  He  re-read 
the  fatal  paragraph  that  had  destroyed  his  hope. 

In  declining  the  honour  you  have  done  me  in  asking 
me  to  be  your  wife,  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  speak  frankly. 
The  reason  I  have  for  so  doing  is  the  great  difference 
between  our  ages.  I  like  you  very,  very  much,  but 
I  am  sure  that  our  marriage  would  not  be  a  happy 
one.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  refer  to  this,  but  I  believe 
that  you  will  appreciate  my  honesty  in  giving  you  the 
true  reason. 

The  Captain  sighed,  and  leaned  his  head  upon  his 
174 


October  and  June  175 

hand.  Yes,  there  were  many  years  between  their 
ages.  But  he  was  strong  and  rugged,  he  had  position 
and  wealth.  Would  not  his  love,  his  tender  care, 
and  the  advantages  he  could  bestow  upon  her  make 
her  forget  the  question  of  age?  Besides,  he  was  almost 
sure  that  she  cared  for  him. 

The  Captain  was  a  man  of  prompt  action.  In  the 
field  he  had  been  distinguished  for  his  decisiveness 
and  energy.  He  would  see  her  and  plead  his  cause 
again  in  person.  Age! — what  was  it  to  come  be- 
tween him  and  the  one  he  loved? 

In  two  hours  he  stood  ready,  in  light  marching 
order,  for  his  greatest  battle.  He  took  the  train 
for  the  old  Southern  town  in  Tennessee  where  she 
lived. 

Theodora  Deming  was  on  the  steps  of  the  handsome, 
porticoed  old  mansion,  enjoying  the  summer  twilight, 
when  the  Captain  entered  the  gate  and  came  up  the 
gravelled  walk.  She  met  him  with  a  smile  that  was 
free  from  embarrassment.  As  the  Captain  stood  on 
the  step  below  her,  the  difference  in  their  ages  did  not 
appear  so  great.  He  was  tall  and  straight  and  clear- 
eyed  and  browned.  She  was  in  the  bloom  of  lovely 
womanhood. 

"I  wasn't  expecting  you,"  said  Theodora;  "but 
now  that  you've  come  you  may  sit  on  the  step.  Didn't 
you  get  my  letter?" 

"I   did,"   said   the   Captain;  *'and    that's   why   I 


176  Sixes  and  Sevens 

came,  I  say,  now,  Theo,  reconsider  your  answer, 
won't  you?" 

Theodora  smiled  softly  upon  him.  He  carried  his 
years  well.  She  was  really  fond  of  his  strength,  his 
wholesome  looks,  his  manliness  —  perhaps,  if 

"No,  no,"  she  said,  shaking  her  head,  positively; 
"it's  out  of  the  question.  I  like  you  a  whole  lot,  but 
marrying  won't  do.  My  age  and  yours  are  —  but 
don't  make  me  say  it  again  —  I  told  you  in  my  letter." 

The  Captain  flushed  a  little  through  the  bronze 
on  his  face.  He  was  silent  for  a  while,  gazing  sadly 
into  the  twilight.  Beyond  a  line  of  woods  that  he 
could  see  was  a  field  where  the  boys  in  blue  had  once 
bivouacked  on  their  march  toward  the  sea.  How 
long  ago  it  seemed  now!  Truly,  Fate  and  Father 
Time  had  tricked  him  sorely.  Just  a  few  years  in- 
terposed between  himself  and  happiness! 

Theodora's  hand  crept  down  and  rested  in  the  clasp 
of  his  firm,  brown  one.  She  felt,  at  least,  that  senti- 
ment that  is  akin  to  love. 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,  please,"  she  said,  gently. 
"It's  all  for  the  best.  I've  reasoned  it  out  very  wisely 
all  by  myself.  Some  day  you'll  be  glad  I  didn't  marry 
you.  It  would  be  very  nice  and  lovely  for  a  while  — 
but,  just  think!  In  only  a  few  short  years  what 
different  tastes  we  would  have!  One  of  us  would 
want  to  sit  by  the  fireside  and  read,  and  maybe  nurse 
neuralgia  or  rheumatism  of  evenings,  while  the  other 


October  and  June  177 

would  be  crazy  for  balls  and  theatres  and  late  suppers. 
No,  my  dear  friend.  While  it  isn't  exactly  January 
and  May,  it's  a  clear  case  of  October  and  pretty  early 
in  June." 

"I'd  always  do  what  you  wanted  me  to  do,  Theo. 
If  you  wanted  to " 

"No,  you  wouldn't.  You  think  now  that  you 
would,  but  you  wouldn't.  Please  don't  ask  me  any 
more." 

The  Captain  had  lost  his  battle.  But  he  was  a 
gallant  warrior,  and  when  he  rose  to  make  his  final 
adieu  his  mouth  was  grimly  set  and  his  shoulders  were 
squared. 

He  took  the  train  for  the  North  that  night.  On  the 
next  evening  he  was  back  in  his  room,  where  his  sword 
was  hanging  against  the  wall.  He  was  dressing  for 
dinner,  tying  his  white  tie  into  a  very  careful  bow. 
And  at  the  same  time  he  was  indulging  in  a  pensive 
soliloquy. 

"Ton  my  honour,  I  believe  Theo  was  right,  after 
all.  Nobody  can  deny  that  she's  a  peach,  but  she 
must  be  twenty-eight,  at  the  very  kindest  calculation." 

For  you  see,  the  Captain  was  only  nineteen,  and  his 
sword  had  never  been  drawn  except  on  the  parade 
ground  at  Chattanooga,  which  was  as  near  as  he  ever 
got  to  the  Spanish-American  War. 


XVI 

THE  CHURCH  WITH  AN   OVERSHOT- WHEEL 

IjAKELANDS  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  catalogues  of 
fashionable  summer  resorts.  It  lies  on  a  low  spur 
of  the  Cumberland  range  of  mountains  on  a  little 
tributary  of  the  Clinch  River.  Lakelands  proper  is 
a  contented  village  of  two  dozen  houses  situated  on  a 
forlorn,  narrow-gauge  railroad  line.  You  wonder 
whether  the  railroad  lost  itself  in  the  pine  woods 
and  ran  into  Lakelands  from  fright  and  loneliness, 
or  whether  Lakelands  got  lost  and  huddled  itself 
along  the  railroad  to  wait  for  the  cars  to  carry  it 
home. 

You  wonder  again  why  it  was  named  Lakelands. 
There  are  no  lakes,  and  the  lands  about  are  too  poor 
to  be  worth  mentioning. 

Half  a  mile  from  the  village  stands  the  Eagle  House, 
a  big,  roomy  old  mansion  run  by  Josiah  Rankin  for 
the  accommodation  of  visitors  who  desire  the  mountain 
air  at  inexpensive  rates.  The  Eagle  House  is  delight- 
fully mismanaged.  It  is  full  of  ancient  instead  of 
modern  improvements,  and  it  is  altogether  as  comforta- 
bly neglected  and  pleasingly  disarranged  as  your  own 

178 


The  Church  loith  an  Overshot-Wheel     179 

home.  But  you  are  furnished  with  clean  rooms  and 
good  and  abundant  fare :  yourself  and  the  piny  woods 
must  do  the  rest.  Nature  has  provided  a  mineral 
spring,  grape-vine  swings,  and  croquet  —  even  the 
wickets  are  wooden.  You  have  Art  to  thank  only  for 
the  fiddle-and-guitar  music  twice  a  week  at  the  hop 
in  the  rustic  pavilion. 

The  patrons  of  the  Eagle  House  are  those  who 
seek  recreation  as  a  necessity,  as  well  as  a  pleasure. 
They  are  busy  people,  who  may  be  likened  to  clocks 
that  need  a  fortnight's  winding  to  insure  a  year's 
running  of  their  wheels.  You  will  find  students  there 
from  the  lower  towns,  now  and  then  an  artist,  or  a 
geologist  absorbed  in  construing  the  ancient  strata 
of  the  hills.  A  few  quiet  families  spend  the  summers 
there;  and  often  one  or  two  tired  members  of  that 
patient  sisterhood  known  to  Lakelands  as  "school- 
marms." 

A  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  Eagle  House  was  what 
would  have  been  described  to  its  guests  as  "an  object 
of  interest"  in  the  catalogue,  had  the  Eagle  House 
issued  a  catalogue.  This  was  an  old,  old  mill  that  was 
no  longer  a  mill.  In  the  words  of  Josiah  Rankin, 
it  was  "the  only  church  in  the  United  States,  sah, 
with  an  overshot- wheel;  and  the  only  mill  in  the  world, 
sah,  with  pews  and  a  pipe  organ."  The  guests  of  the 
Eagle  House  attended  the  old  mill  church  each  Sabbath, 
and  heard  the  preacher  liken  the  purified  Christian 


180  Sixes  and  Sevens 

to  bolted  flour  ground  to  usefulness  between  the 
millstones  of  experience  and  suffering. 

Every  year  about  the  beginning  of  autumn  there 
came  to  the  Eagle  House  one  Abram  Strong,  who 
remained  for  a  time  an  honoured  and  beloved  guest. 
In  Lakelands  he  was  called  "Father  Abram,"  because 
his  hair  was  so  white,  his  face  so  strong  and  kind  and 
florid,  his  laugh  so  merry,  and  his  black  clothes  and 
broad  hat  so  priestly  in  appearance.  Even  new  guests 
after  three  or  four  days'  acquaintance  gave  him  this 
familiar  title. 

Father  Abram  came  a  long  way  to  Lakelands.  He 
lived  in  a  big,  roaring  towTi  in  the  Northwest  where 
he  owned  mills,  not  little  mills  with  pews  and  an 
organ  in  them,  but  great,  ugly,  mountain-like  mills 
that  the  freight  trains  crawled  around  all  day  like 
ants  around  an  ant-heap.  And  now  you  must  be 
told  about  Father  Abram  and  the  mill  that  was  a 
church,  for  their  stories  run  together. 

In  the  days  when  the  church  was  a  mill,  Mr. 
Strong  was  the  miller.  There  was  no  jollier,  dustier, 
busier,  happier  miller  in  all  the  land  than  he.  He 
lived  in  a  little  cottage  across  the  road  from  the  mill. 
His  hand  was  hea\'y,  but  his  toll  was  light,  and  the 
mountaineers  brought  their  grain  to  him  across  many 
weary  miles  of  rocky  roads. 

The  delight  of  the  miller's  life  was  his  little  daughter, 
Aglaia.     That  was  a  brave  name,  truly,  for  a  flaxen- 


The  Church  with  an  Overshot-Wheel     181 

haired  toddler;  but  the  mountaineers  love  sonorous 
and  stately  names.  The  mother  had  encountered 
it  somewhere  in  a  book,  and  the  deed  was  done.  In 
her  babyhood  Aglaia  herself  repudiated  the  name, 
as  far  as  common  use  went,  and  persisted  in  calling 
herself  "Dums."  The  miller  and  his  wife  often  tried 
to  coax  from  Aglaia  the  source  of  this  mysterious 
name,  but  without  results.  At  last  they  arrived  at 
a  theory.  In  the  little  garden  behind  the  cottage  was 
a  bed  of  rhododendrons  in  which  the  child  took  a 
peculiar  delight  and  interest.  It  may  have  been  that 
she  perceived  in  "Dums"  a  kinship  to  the  formidable 
name  of  her  favourite  flowers. 

When  Aglaia  was  four  years  old  she  and  her  father 
used  to  go  through  a  little  performance  in  the  mill 
every  afternoon,  that  never  failed  to  come  off,  the 
weather  permitting.  When  supper  was  ready  her 
mother  would  brush  her  hair  and  put  on  a  clean  apron 
and  send  her  across  to  the  mill  to  bring  her  father 
home.  When  the  miller  saw  her  coming  in  the  mill 
door  he  would  come  forward,  all  white  with  the  flour 
dust,  and  wave  his  hand  and  sing  an  old  miller's 
song  that  was  familiar  in  those  parts  and  ran  something 
like  this: 

"The  wheel  goes  round. 
The  grist  is  ground. 

The  dusty  miller's  merry. 
He  sings  all  day, 
His  work  is  play. 

While  thinking  of  his  dearie." 


182  Sixes  and  Sevens 

Then  Aglaia  would  run  to  him  laughing,  and  call: 
"Da-da,  come  take  Dums  home;"  and  the  miller 
would  swing  her  to  his  shoulder  and  march  over  to 
supper,  singing  the  miller's  song.  Every  evening 
this  would  take  place. 

One  day,  only  a  week  after  her  fourth  birthday, 
Aglaia  disappeared.  When  last  seen  she  was  plucking 
wild  flowers  by  the  side  of  the  road  in  front  of  the  cot- 
tage. A  little  while  later  her  mother  went  out  to  see  that 
she  did  not  stray  too  far  away,  and  she  was  already  gone. 

Of  course  every  eflfort  was  made  to  find  her.  The 
neighbours  gathered  and  searched  the  woods  and  the 
mountains  for  miles  around.  They  dragged  every 
foot  of  the  mill  race  and  the  creek  for  a  long  distance 
below  the  dam.  Never  a  trace  of  her  did  they  find. 
A  night  or  two  before  there  had  been  a  family  of  wan- 
derers camped  in  a  grove  near  by.  It  was  conjectured 
that  they  might  have  stolen  the  child;  but  when  their 
wagon  was  overtaken  and  searched  she  could  not  be 
found. 

The  miller  remained  at  the  mill  for  nearly  two 
years;  and  then  his  hope  of  finding  her  died  out.  He 
and  his  wife  moved  to  the  Northwest.  In  a  few 
years  he  was  the  owner  of  a  modern  mill  in  one  of  the 
important  milling  cities  in  that  region.  Mrs.  Strong 
never  recovered  from  the  shock  caused  by  the  loss  of 
Aglaia,  and  two  years  after  they  moved  away  the  miller 
was  left  to  bear  his  sorrow  alone. 


The  Church  loith  an  Overshot-Wheel     183 

When  Abram  Strong  became  prosperous  he  paid  a 
visit  to  Lakelands  and  the  old  mill.  The  scene  was  a 
sad  one  for  him,  but  he  was  a  strong  man,  and  always 
appeared  cheery  and  kindly.  It  was  then  that  he 
was  inspired  to  convert  the  old  mill  into  a  churcli. 
Lakelands  was  too  poor  to  build  one;  and  the  still 
poorer  mountaineers  could  not  assist.  There  was  no 
place  of  worship  nearer  than  twenty  miles. 

The  miller  altered  the  appearance  of  the  mill  as 
little  as  possible.  The  big  overshot-wheel  was  left 
in  its  place.  The  young  people  who  came  to  the  church 
used  to  cut  their  initials  in  its  soft  and  slowly  decaying 
wood.  The  dam  was  partly  destroyed,  and  the  clear 
mountain  stream  rippled  unchecked  down  its  rocky 
bed.  Inside  the  mill  the  changes  were  greater.  The 
shafts  and  millstones  and  belts  and  pulleys  were,  of 
course,  all  removed.  There  were  two  rows  of  benches 
with  aisles  between,  and  a  little  raised  platform  and 
pulpit  at  one  end.  On  three  sides  overhead  was  a 
gallery  containing  seats,  and  reached  by  a  stairway 
inside.  There  was  also  an  organ  —  a  real  pipe  organ 
—  in  the  gallery,  that  was  the  pride  of  the  congrega- 
tion of  the  Old  Mill  Church.  Miss  Phoebe  Summers 
was  the  organist.  The  Lakelands  boys  proudly  took 
turns  at  pumping  It  for  her  at  each  Sunday's  service. 
The  Rev.  Mr.  Banbridge  was  the  preacher,  and  rode 
down  from  Squirrel  Gap  on  his  old  white  horse  without 
ever  missing  a  service.     And  Abram  Strong  paid  for 


184  Sixes  and  Sevens 

everything.  He  paid  the  preacher  five  hundred 
dollars  a  year;  and  Miss  Phoebe  two  hundred  dollars. 

Thus,  in  memory  of  Aglaia,  the  old  mill  was  con- 
verted into  a  blessing  for  the  community  in  which 
she  had  once  lived.  It  seemed  that  the  brief  life  of 
the  child  had  brought  about  more  good  than  the  three 
score  years  and  ten  of  many.  But  Abram  Strong  set 
up  yet  another  monument  to  her  memory. 

Out  from  his  mills  in  the  Northwest  came  the 
"Aglaia"  flour,  made  from  the  hardest  and  finest 
wheat  that  could  be  raised.  The  country  soon  found 
out  that  the  "Aglaia"  flour  had  two  prices.  One  was 
the  highest  market  price,  and  the  other  was  —  nothing. 

Wherever  there  happened  a  calamity  that  left 
people  destitute  —  a  fire,  a  flood,  a  tornado,  a  strike, 
or  a  famine,  there  would  go  hurrying  a  generous  con- 
signment of  the  "Aglaia"  at  its  "nothing"  price.  It 
was  given  away  cautiously  and  judiciously,  but  it 
was  freely  given,  and  not  a  penny  could  the  hungry 
ones  pay  for  it.  There  got  to  be  a  saying  that  whenever 
there  was  a  disastrous  fire  in  the  poor  districts  of  a  city 
the  fire  chief's  buggy  reached  the  scene  first,  next  the 
"Aglaia"  flour  wagon,  and  then  the  fire  engines. 

So  this  was  Abram  Strong's  other  monument  to 
Aglaia.  Perhaps  to  a  poet  the  theme  may  seem  too 
utilitarian  for  beauty;  but  to  some  the  fancy  will 
seem  sweet  and  fine  that  the  pure,  white,  virgin  flour, 
flying  on  its  mission   of  love  and  charity,    might  be 


The  Church  with  an  Over  shot-Wheel     185 

likened  to  the  spirit  of  the  lost  child  whose  memory 
it  signalized. 

There  came  a  year  that  brought  hard  times  to  the 
Cumberlands.  Grain  crops  everywhere  were  light, 
and  there  were  no  local  crops  at  all.  Mountain  floods 
had  done  much  damage  to  property.  Even  game  in  the 
woods  was  so  scarce  that  the  hunters  brought  hardly 
enough  home  to  keep  their  folk  alive.  Especially 
about  Lakelands  was  the  rigour  felt. 

As  soon  as  Abram  Strong  heard  of  this  his  messages 
flew;  and  the  little  narrow-gauge  cars  began  to  unload 
"Aglaia"  flour  there.  The  miller's  orders  were  to 
store  the  flour  in  the  gallery  of  the  Old  Mill  Church; 
and  that  every  one  who  attended  the  church  was  to 
carry  home  a  sack  of  it. 

Two  weeks  after  that  Abram  Strong  came  for  his 
yearly  visit  to  the  Eagle  House,  and  became  "Father 
Abram"  again. 

That  season  the  Eagle  House  had  fewer  guests 
than  usual.  Among  them  was  Rose  Chester.  Miss 
Chester  came  to  Lakelands  from  Atlanta,  where  she 
worked  in  a  department  store.  This  was  the  first 
vacation  outing  of  her  life.  The  wife  of  the  store  mana- 
ger had  once  spent  a  summer  at  the  Eagle  House. 
She  had  taken  a  fancy  to  Rose,  and  had  persuaded 
her  to  go  there  for  her  three  weeks'  holiday.  The 
manager's  wife  gave  her  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Rankin,  who 
gladly  received  her  in  her  own  charge  and  care. 


186  Sixes  and  Sevens 

Miss  Chester  was  not  very  strong.  She  was  about 
twenty,  and  pale  and  delicate  from  an  indoor  life. 
But  one  week  of  Lakelands  gave  her  a  brightness  and 
spirit  that  changed  her  wonderfully.  The  time  was 
early  September  when  the  Cumberlands  are  at  their 
greatest  beauty.  The  mountain  foliage  was  growing 
brilliant  with  autumnal  colours;  one  breathed  serial 
champagne,  the  nights  were  deliciously  cool,  causing 
one  to  snuggle  cosily  under  the  warm  blankets  of 
the  Eagle  House. 

Father  Abram  and  Miss  Chester  became  great 
friends.  The  old  miller  learned  her  story  from  Mrs. 
Rankin,  and  his  interest  went  out  quickly  to  the  slender, 
lonely  girl  who  was  making  her  own  way  in  the  world. 

The  mountain  country  was  new  to  Miss  Chester. 
She  had  lived  many  years  in  the  warm,  flat  town  of 
Atlanta;  and  the  grandeur  and  variety  of  the  Cumber- 
lands  delighted  her.  She  was  determined  to  enjoy 
every  moment  of  her  stay.  Her  little  hoard  of  savings 
had  been  estimated  so  carefully  in  connection  with  her 
expenses  that  she  knew  almost  to  a  penny  what  her 
very  small  surplus  would  be  when  she  returned  to 
work. 

Miss  Chester  was  fortunate  in  gaining  Father 
Abram  for  a  friend  and  companion.  He  knew  every 
road  and  peak  and  slope  of  the  mountains  near  Lake- 
lands. Through  him  she  became  acquainted  with  the 
solemn  delight  of  the  shadowy,  tilted  aisles  of  the 


The  Church  ivith  an  Over  shot-Wheel     187 

pine  forests,  the  dignity  of  the  bare  crags,  the  crystal, 
tonic  mornings,  the  dreamy,  golden  afternoons  full 
of  mysterious  sadness.  So  her  health  improved, 
and  her  spirits  grew  light.  She  had  a  laugh  as  genial 
and  hearty  in  its  feminine  way  as  the  famous  laugh 
of  Father  Abram.  Both  of  them  were  natural  opti- 
mists; and  both  knew  how  to  present  a  serene  and 
cheerful  face  to  the  world. 

One  day  Miss  Chester  learned  from  one  of  the  guests 
the  history  of  Father  Abram's  lost  child.  Quickly 
she  hurried  away  and  found  the  miller  seated  on  his 
favourite  rustic  bench  near  the  chalybeate  spring. 
He  was  surprised  when  his  little  fri'end  slipped  her 
hand  into  his,  and  looked  at  him  with  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"Oh,  Father  Abram,"  she  said,  "I'm  so  sorry!  I 
didn't  know  until  to-day  about  your  little  daughter. 
You  will  find  her  yet  some  day  —  Oh,  I  hope  you 
will." 

The  miller  looked  down  at  her  with  his  strong, 
ready  smile. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Rose,"  he  said,  in  his  usual 
cheery  tones.  "But  I  do  not  expect  to  find  Aglaia. 
For  a  few  years  I  hoped  that  she  had  been  stolen  by 
vagrants,  and  that  she  still  lived;  but  I  have  lost  that 
hope.     I  believe  that  she  was  drowned." 

"I  can  understand,"  said  Miss  Chester,  "how  the 
doubt  must  have  made  it  so  hard  to  bear.     And  yet 


188  Sixes  and  Sevens 

you  are  so  cheerful  and  so  ready  to  make  other  people's 
burdens  light.     Good  Father  Abram ! " 

"Good  Miss  Rose!"  mimicked  the  miller,  smiling. 
"Who  thinks  of  others  more  than  you  do?" 

A  whimsical  mood  seemed  to  strike  Miss  Chester. 

"Oh,  Father  Abram,"  she  cried,  "wouldn't  it  be 
grand  if  I  should  prove  to  be  your  daughter  ?  Wouldn't 
it  be  romantic?  And  wouldn't  you  like  to  have  me 
for  a  daughter?" 

"Indeed,  I  would,"  said  the  miller,  heartily.  "If 
Aglaia  had  lived  I  could  wish  for  nothing  better  than 
for  her  to  have  grown  up  to  be  just  such  a  little  woman 
as  you  are.  Maybe  you  are  Aglaia,"  he  continued, 
falling  in  with  her  playful  mood ;  "  can't  you  remember 
when  we  lived  at  the  mill?  " 

Miss  Chester  fell  swiftly  into  serious  meditation. 
Her  large  eyes  were  fixed  vaguely  upon  something 
in  the  distance.  Father  Abram  was  amused  at  her 
quick  return  to  seriousness.  She  sat  thus  for  a  long 
time  before  she  spoke. 

"No,"  she  said  at  length,  with  a  long  sigh,  "I  can't 
remember  anything  at  all  about  a  mill.  I  don't 
think  that  I  ever  saw  a  flour  mill  in  my  life  until  I 
saw  your  funny  little  church.  And  if  I  were  your  little 
girl  I  would  remember  it,  wouldn't  I?  I'm  so  sorry. 
Father  Abram." 

"So  am  I,"  said  Father  Abram,  humouring  her. 
"But  if  you  cannot  remember  that  you  are  my  little 


The  Church  with  an  Overshot-Wheel     189 

girl,  Miss  Rose,  surely  you  can  recollect  being  some 
one  else's.  You  remember  your  own  parents,  of 
course." 

"Oh,  yes;  I  remember  them  very  well  —  especially 
my  father.  He  wasn't  a  bit  like  you.  Father  Abram. 
Oh,  I  was  only  making  believe.  Come,  now,  you've 
rested  long  enough.  You  promised  to  show  me  the 
pool  where  you  can  see  the  trout  playing,  this  after- 
noon.    I  never  saw  a  trout." 

Late  one  afternoon  Father  Abram  set  out  for  the 
old  mill  alone.  He  often  went  to  sit  and  think  of  the 
old  days  when  he  lived  in  the  cottage  across  the  road. 
Time  had  smoothed  away  the  sharpness  of  his  grief 
until  he  no  longer  found  the  memory  of  those  times 
painful.  But  whenever  Abram  Strong  sat  in  the 
melancholy  September  afternoons  on  the  spot  where 
"Dums"  used  to  run  in  every  day  with  her  yellow 
curls  flying,  the  smile  that  Lakelands  always  saw  upon 
his  face  was  not  there. 

The  miller  made  his  way  slowly  up  the  winding, 
steep  road.  The  trees  crowded  so  close  to  the  edge  of 
it  that  he  walked  in  their  shade,  with  his  hat  in  his 
hand.  Squirrels  ran  playfully  upon  the  old  rail 
fence  at  his  right.  Quails  were  calling  to  their  young 
broods  in  the  wheat  stubble.  The  low  sun  sent  a 
torrent  of  pale  gold  up  the  ravine  that  opened  to  the 
west.  Early  September !  —  it  was  within  a  few  days 
only   of  the  anniversary   of  Aglaia's   disappearance. 


190  Sixes  and  Sevejis 

The  old  overshot-wheel,  half  covered  \\ath  mountain 
i^y,  caught  patches  of  the  warm  sunlight  filtering 
through  the  trees.  The  cottage  across  the  road  was 
still  standing,  but  it  would  doubtless  go  down  before 
the  next  winter's  mountain  blasts.  It  was  overrun 
with  morning  glory  and  wild  gourd  vines,  and  the 
door  hung  by  one  hinge. 

Father  Abram  pushed  open  the  mill  door,  and 
entered  softly.  And  then  he  stood  still,  wondering. 
He  heard  the  sound  of  some  one  within,  weeping 
inconsolably.  He  looked,  and  saw  Miss  Chester 
sitting  in  a  dim  pew,  with  her  head  bowed  upon  an 
open  letter  that  her  hands  held. 

Father  Abram  went  to  her,  and  laid  one  of  his 
strong  hands  firmly  upon  hers.  She  looked  up, 
breathed  his  name,  and  tried  to  speak  further. 

"Not  yet,  Miss  Rose,"  said  the  miller,  kindly. 
"Don't  try  to  talk  yet.  There's  nothing  as  good  for 
you  as  a  nice,  quiet  little  cry  when  you  are  feeling 
blue." 

It  seemed  that  the  old  miller,  who  had  known  so 
much  sorrow  himself,  was  a  magician  in  driving  it 
away  from  others.  Miss  Chester's  sobs  grew  easier. 
Presently  she  took  her  little  plain-bordered  handker- 
chief and  wiped  away  a  drop  or  two  that  had  fallen 
from  her  eyes  upon  Father  Abram 's  big  hand.  Then 
she  looked  up  and  smiled  through  her  tears.  Miss 
Chester  could  always  smile  before  her  tears  had  dried, 


The  Church  with  an  Overshot-Wheel     191 

just  as  Father  Abram  could  smile  through  his  own 
grief.     In  that  way  the  two  were  very  much  alike. 

The  miller  asked  her  no  questions;  but  by  and  by 
Miss  Chester  began  to  tell  him. 

It  was  the  old  story  that  always  seems  so  big  and 
important  to  the  young,  and  that  brings  reminiscent 
smiles  to  their  elders.  Love  was  the  theme,  as  may 
be  supposed.  There  was  a  young  man  in  Atlanta, 
full  of  all  goodness  and  the  graces,  who  had  discovered 
that  Miss  Chester  also  possessed  these  qualities  above 
all  other  people  in  Atlanta  or  anywhere  else  from  Green- 
land to  Patagonia.  She  showed  Father  Abram  the 
letter  over  which  she  had  been  weeping.  It  was  a 
manly,  tender  letter,  a  little  superlative  and  urgent, 
after  the  style  of  love  letters  written  by  young  men 
full  of  goodness  and  the  graces.  He  proposed  for 
Miss  Chester's  hand  in  marriage  at  once.  Life,  he 
said,  since  her  departure  for  a  three-weeks'  visit,  was 
not  to  be  endured.  He  begged  for  an  immediate 
answer;  and  if  it  were  favourable  he  promised  to 
fly,  ignoring  the  narrow-gauge  railroad,  at  once  to 
Lakelands. 

"And  now  where  does  the  trouble  come  in?'*  asked 
the  miller  when  he  had  read  the  letter. 

"I  cannot  marry  him,"  said  Miss  Chester. 

"Do  you  want  to  marry  him?  "  asked  Father  Abram. 

"Oh,  I  love  him,"  she  answered,  "but "    Down 

went  her  head  and  Ae  sobbed  again. 


192  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"Come,  Miss  Rose,"  said  the  miller;  "you  can  give 
me  your  confidence.  I  do  not  question  you,  but  I 
think  you  can  trust  me." 

"  I  do  trust  you,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  will  tell  you  why 
I  must  refuse  Ralph.  I  am  nobody;  I  haven't  even 
a  name;  the  name  I  call  myself  is  a  lie.  Ralph  is  a 
noble  man.  I  love  him  with  all  my  heart,  but  I  can 
never  be  his." 

"What  talk  is  this?"  said  Father  Abram.  "You 
said  that  you  remember  your  parents.  Why  do  you 
say  you  have  no  name?     I  do  not  understand." 

"I  do  remember  them,"  said  Miss  Chester.  "I  re- 
member them  too  well.  My  first  recollections  are 
of  our  life  somewhere  in  the  far  South.  We  moved 
many  times  to  different  towns  and  states.  I  have 
picked  cotton,  and  worked  in  factories,  and  have  often 
gone  without  enough  food  and  clothes.  My  mother 
was  sometimes  good  to  me;  my  father  was  always 
cruel,  and  beat  me.  I  think  they  were  both  idle 
and  unsettled. 

"One  night  when  we  were  living  in  a  little  town  on  a 
river  near  Atlanta  they  had  a  great  quarrel.  It  was 
while  they  were  abusing  and  taunting  each  other 
that  I  learned  —  oh,  Father  Abram,  I  learned  that 
I  didn't  even  have  the  right  to  be  —  don't  you  un- 
derstand? I  had  no  right  even  to  a  name;  I  was 
nobody. 

"I  ran  away  that  night.     I  walked  to  Atlanta  and 


The  Church  with  an  Over  shot-Wheel     193 

found  work.  I  gave  myself  the  name  of  Rose  Chester, 
and  have  earned  my  own  living  ever  since.  Now 
you  know  why  I  cannot  marry  Ralph  —  and,  oh,  I 
can  never  tell  him  why." 

Better  than  any  sympathy,  more  helpful  than  pity, 
was  Father  Abram's  depreciation  of  her  woes. 

"Why,  dear,  dear!  is  that  all?"  he  said.  "Fie,  fie! 
I  thought  something  was  in  the  way.  If  this  perfect 
young  man  is  a  man  at  all  he  will  not  care  a  pinch 
of  bran  for  your  family  tree.  Dear  Miss  Rose,  take 
my  word  for  it,  it  is  yourself  he  cares  for.  Tell  him 
frankly,  just  as  you  have  told  me,  and  I'll  warrant 
that  he  will  laugh  at  your  story,  and  think  all  the  more 
of  you  for  it." 

"I  shall  never  tell  him,"  said  Miss  Chester,  sadly. 
"And  I  shall  never  marry  him  nor  any  one  else.  I 
have  not  the  right." 

But  they  saw  a  long  shadow  come  bobbing  up  the 
sunlit  road.  And  then  came  a  shorter  one  bobbing 
by  its  side;  and  presently  two  strange  figures  ap- 
proached the  church.  The  long  shadow  was  made  by 
Miss  Phoebe  Summers,  the  organist,  come  to  practise. 
Tommy  Teague,  aged  twelve,  was  responsible  for 
the  shorter  shadow.  It  was  Tommy's  day  to  pump 
the  organ  for  Miss  Phoebe,  and  his  bare  toes  proudly 
spurned  the  dust  of  the  road. 

Miss  Phoebe,  in  her  lilac-spray  chintz  dress,  with  her 
accurate  little  curls  hanging  over  each  ear,  courtesied 


194  Sixes  and  Sevens 

low  to  Father  Abram,  and  shook  her  curls  ceremoni- 
ously at  Miss  Chester.  Then  she  and  her  assistant 
climbed  the  steep  stairway  to  the  organ  loft. 

In  the  gathering  shadows  below,  Father  Abram  and 
Miss  Chester  lingered.  They  were  silent;  and  it  is 
likely  that  they  were  busy  with  their  memories.  Miss 
Chester  sat,  leaning  her  head  on  her  hand,  with  her 
eyes  fixed  far  away.  Father  x\bram  stood  in  the  next 
pew,  looking  thoughtfully  out  of  the  door  at  the 
road  and  the  ruined  cottage. 

Suddenly  the  scene  was  transformed  for  him  back 
almost  a  score  of  years  into  the  past.  For,  as  Tommy 
pumped  away.  Miss  Phoebe  struck  a  low  bass  note 
on  the  organ  and  held  it  to  test  the  volume  of  air 
that  it  contained.  The  church  ceased  to  exist,  so 
far  as  Father  Abram  was  concerned.  The  deep, 
booming  vibration  that  shook  the  little  frame  building 
was  no  note  from  an  organ,  but  the  humming  of  the 
mill  machinery.  He  felt  sure  that  the  old  overshot 
wheel  was  turning;  that  he  was  back  again,  a  dusty, 
merry  miller  in  the  old  mountain  mill.  And  now 
evening  was  come,  and  soon  would  come  Aglaia  with 
flying  colours,  toddling  across  the  road  to  take  him 
home  to  supper.  Father  Abram's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  the  broken  door  of  the  cottage. 

And  then  came  another  wonder.  In  the  gallery 
overhead  the  sacks  of  flour  were  stacked  in  long  rows. 
Perhaps  a  mouse  had  been  at  one  of  them;  anyway 


The  Church  with  an  Over  shot-Wheel      195 

the  jar  of  the  deep  organ  note  shook  down  between 
the  cracks  of  the  gallery  floor  a  stream  of  flour,  cover- 
ing Father  Abram  from  head  to  foot  with  the  white 
dust.  And  then  the  old  miller  stepped  into  the  aisle, 
and  waved  his  arms  and  began  to  sing  the  miller's 
song: 

"The  wheel  goes  round. 
The  grist  is  ground, 

The  dusty  miller's  merry." 

— ^and  then  the  rest  of  the  miracle  happened.  Miss 
Chester  was  leaning  forward  from  her  pew,  as  pale 
as  the  flour  itself,  her  wide-open  eyes  staring  at  Father 
Abram  like  one  in  a  waking  dream.  When  he  began 
the  song  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him;  her  lips 
moved;  she  called  to  him  in  dreamy  tones:  "Da-da, 
come  take  Dums  home ! " 

Miss  Phoebe  released  the  low  key  of  the  organ. 
But  her  work  had  been  well  done.  The  note  that  she 
struck  had  beaten  down  the  doors  of  a  closed  memory ; 
and  Father  Abram  held  his  lost  Aglaia  close  in  his 
arms. 

When  you  visit  Lakelands  they  will  tell  you  more 
of  this  story.  They  will  tell  you  how  the  lines  of  it 
were  afterward  traced,  and  the  history  of  the  miller's 
daughter  revealed  after  the  gipsy  wanderers  had 
stolen  her  on  that  September  day,  attracted  by  her 
childish  beauty.  But  you  should  wait  until  you  sit 
comfortably  on  the  shaded  porch  of  the  Eagle  House, 


196  Sixes  and  Sevens 

and  then  you  can  have  the  story  at  your  ease.  It 
seems  best  that  our  part  of  it  should  close  while  Miss 
Phoebe's  deep  bass  note  was  yet  reverberating  softly. 

And  yet,  to  my  mind,  the  finest  thing  of  it  all  hap- 
pened while  Father  Abram  and  his  daughter  were 
walking  back  to  the  Eagle  House  in  the  long  twilight, 
almost  too  glad  to  speak. 

"Father,"  she  said,  somewhat  timidly  and  doubt- 
fully, "have  you  a  great  deal  of  money?  " 

"A  great  deal.'^"  said  the  miller.  "Well,  that  de- 
pends. There  is  plenty  unless  you  want  to  buy  the 
moon  or  something  equally  expensive." 

"Would  it  cost  very,  very  much,"  asked  Aglaia, 
who  had  always  counted  her  dimes  so  carefully,  "to 
send  a  telegram  to  Atlanta.'*" 

"Ah,"  said  Father  Abram,  with  a  little  sigh,  "I 
see.     You  want  to  ask  Ralph  to  come." 

Aglaia  looked  up  at  him  with  a  tender  smile. 

"I  want  to  ask  him  to  wait,"  she  said.  "I  have 
just  found  my  father,  and  I  want  it  to  be  just  we  two 
for  a  while.     I  want  to  tell  him  he  will  have  to  wait." 


XVII 
NEW  YORK  BY  CAMP  FIRE  LIGHT 

Away  out  in  the  Creek  Nation  we  learned  things 
about  New  York. 

We  were  on  a  hunting  trip,  and  were  camped  one 
night  on  the  bank  of  a  little  stream.  Bud  Kingsbury 
was  our  skilled  hunter  and  guide,  and  it  was  from  his 
lips  that  we  had  explanations  of  Manhattan  and  the 
queer  folks  that  inhabit  it.  Bud  had  once  spent  a 
month  in  the  metropolis,  and  a  week  or  two  at  other 
times,  and  he  was  pleased  to  discourse  to  us  of  what 
he  had  seen. 

Fifty  yards  away  from  our  camp  was  pitched  the 
teepee  of  a  wandering  family  of  Indians  that  had 
come  up  and  settled  there  for  the  night.  An  old, 
old  Indian  woman  was  trying  to  build  a  fire  under 
an  iron  pot  hung  upon  three  sticks. 

Bud  went  over  to  her  assistance,  and  soon  had  her 
fire  going.  When  he  came  back  we  complimented 
him  playfully  upon  his  gallantry. 

"Oh,"  said  Bud,  "don't  mention  it.  It's  a  way  I 
have.  Whenever  I  see  a  lady  trying  to  cook  things 
in  a  pot  and  having  trouble  I  always  go  to  the  rescue. 

197 


198  Sixes  and  Sevens 

I  done  the  same  thing  once  in  a  high-toned  house  in 
New  York  City.  Heap  big  society  teepee  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  That  Injun  lady  kind  of  recalled  it  to  my 
mind.  Yes,  I  endeavours  to  be  polite  and  help  the 
ladies  out." 

The  camp  demanded  the  particulars. 

"I  was  manager  of  the  Triangle  B  Ranch  in  the 
Panhandle,"  said  Bud.  "It  was  owned  at  that  time 
by  old  man  Sterling,  of  New  York.  He  wanted  to 
sell  out,  and  he  wrote  for  me  to  come  on  to  New  York 
and  explain  the  ranch  to  the  syndicate  that  wanted 
to  buy.  So  I  sends  to  Fort  Worth  and  has  a  forty 
dollar  suit  of  clothes  made,  and  hits  the  trail  for  the  big 
village. 

"Well,  when  I  got  there,  old  man  Sterling  and  his 
outfit  certainly  laid  themselves  out  to  be  agreeable. 
We  had  business  and  pleasure  so  mixed  up  that  you 
couldn't  tell  whether  it  was  a  treat  or  a  trade  half 
the  time.  We  had  trolley  rides,  and  cigars,  and 
theatre  round-ups,  and  rubber  parties." 

"Rubber  parties?"  said  a  listener,  inquiringly. 

"Sure,"  said  Bud.  "Didn't  you  never  attend  'em? 
You  walk  around  and  try  to  look  at  the  tops  of  the 
skyscrapers.  Well,  we  sold  the  ranch,  and  old  man 
Sterling  asks  me  'round  to  his  house  to  take  grub  on 
the  night  before  I  started  back.  It  wasn't  any  high- 
collared  affair  —  just  me  and  the  old  man  and  his 
wife  and  daughter.     But  they  was  a  fine-haired  outfit 


New  York  by  Camp  Fire  Light       199 

all  right,  and  the  lilies  of  the  field  wasn't  in  it.  They 
made  my  Fort  Worth  clothes  carpenter  look  like  a 
dealer  in  horse  blankets  and  gee  strings.  And  then 
the  table  was  all  pompous  with  flowers,  and  there  was 
a  whole  kit  of  tools  laid  out  beside  everybody's  plate. 
You'd  have  thought  you  was  fixed  out  to  burglarize 
a  restaurant  before  you  could  get  your  grub.  But 
I'd  been  in  New  York  over  a  week  then,  and  I  was 
getting  on  to  stylish  ways.  I  kind  of  trailed  behind 
and  watched  the  others  use  the  hardware  supplies, 
and  then  I  tackled  the  chuck  with  the  same  weapons. 
It  ain't  much  trouble  to  travel  with  the  high-flyers 
after  you  find  out  their  gait.  I  got  along  fine.  I 
was  feeling  cool  and  agreeable,  and  pretty  soon  I  was 
talking  away  fluent  as  you  please,  all  about  the  ranch 
and  the  West,  and  telling  'em  how  the  Indians  eat 
grasshopper  stew  and  snakes,  and  you  never  saw 
people  so  interested. 

"But  the  real  joy  of  that  feast  was  that  Miss  Ster- 
ling. Just  a  little  trick  she  was,  not  bigger  than  two 
bits  worth  of  chewing  plug;  but  she  had  a  way  about 
her  that  seemed  to  say  she  was  the  people,  and  you 
believed  it.  And  yet,  she  never  put  on  any  airs,  and 
she  smiled  at  me  the  same  as  if  I  was  a  millionaire 
while  I  was  telling  about  a  Creek  dog  feast  and  listened 
like  it  was  news  from  home. 

"By  and  by,  after  we  had  eat  oysters  and  some 
watery  soup  and  truck  that  never  was  in  my  repertory, 


200  Sixes  and  Sevens 

a  Methodist  preacher  brings  in  a  kind  of  camp  stove 
arrangement,  all  silver,  on  long  legs,  with  a  lamp 
under  it. 

"Miss  Sterling  lights  up  and  begins  to  do  some 
cooking  right  on  the  supper  table.  I  wondered  why 
old  man  Sterling  didn't  hire  a  cook,  with  all  the  money 
he  had.  Pretty  soon  she  dished  out  some  cheesy 
tasting  truck  that  she  said  was  rabbit,  but  I  swear 
there  had  never  been  a  Molly  cotton  tail  in  a  mile  of 
it. 

"The  last  thing  on  the  programme  was  lemonade. 
It  was  brought  around  in  little  flat  glass  bowls  and  set 
by  your  plate.  I  was  pretty  thirsty,  and  I  picked  up 
mine  and  took  a  big  swig  of  it.  Right  there  was 
where  the  little  lady  had  made  a  mistake.  She  had 
put  in  the  lemon  all  right,  but  she'd  forgot  the  sugar. 
The  best  housekeepers  slip  up  sometimes.  I  thought 
maybe  Miss  Sterling  was  just  learning  to  keep  house 
and  cook  —  that  rabbit  would  surely  make  you  think 
so  —  and  I  says  to  myself,  'Little  lady,  sugar  or  no 
sugar  I'll  stand  by  you,'  and  I  raises  up  my  bowl 
again  and  drinks  the  last  drop  of  the  lemonade.  And 
then  all  the  balance  of  'em  picks  up  their  bowls  and 
does  the  same.  And  then  I  gives  Miss  Sterling  the 
laugh  proper,  just  to  carry  it  ofl'  like  a  joke,  so  she 
wouldn't  feel  bad  about  the  mistake. 

"After  we  all  went  into  the  sitting  room  she  sat 
down  and  talked  to  me  quite  awhile. 


New  York  by  Camp  Fire  Light       201 

"*It  was  so  kind  of  you,  Mr.  Kingsbury,'  says  she, 
*to  bring  my  blunder  off  so  nicely.  It  was  so  stupid 
of  me  to  forget  the  sugar.' 

"'Never  you  mind,'  says  I,  'some  lucky  man  will 
throw  his  rope  over  a  mighty  elegant  little  house- 
keeper some  day,  not  far  from  here.' 

"'If  you  mean  me,  Mr.  Kingsbury,'  says  she, 
laughing  out  loud,  'I  hope  he  will  be  as  lenient  with 
my  poor  housekeeping  as  you  have  been.' 

"'Don't  mention  it,'  says  I.  'Anything  to  oblige 
the  ladies.'" 

Bud  ceased  his  reminiscences.  And  then  some  one 
asked  him  what  he  considered  the  most  striking  and 
prominent  trait  of  New  Yorkers. 

"The  most  visible  and  peculiar  trait  of  New  York 
folks,"  answered  Bud,  "is  New  York.  Most  of  'em 
has  New  York  on  the  brain.  They  have  heard  of 
other  places,  such  as  Waco,  and  Paris,  and  Hot  Springs, 
and  London;  but  they  don't  believe  in  'em.  They 
think  that  town  is  all  Merino.  Now  to  show  you  how 
much  they  care  for  their  village  I'll  tell  you  about 
one  of  'em  that  strayed  out  as  far  as  the  Triangle 
B  while  I  was  working  there. 

"This  New  Yorker  come  out  there  looking  for  a 
job  on  the  ranch.  He  said  he  was  a  good  horseback 
rider,  and  there  was  pieces  of  tanbark  hanging  on  his 
clothes  yet  from  his  riding  school. 

"Well,  for  a  while  they  put  him  to  keeping  books  in 


202  Sixes  and  Sevens 

the  ranch  store,  for  he  was  a  devil  at  figures.  But 
he  got  tired  of  that,  and  asked  for  something  more 
in  the  hne  of  activity.  The  boys  on  the  ranch  hked 
him  all  right,  but  he  made  us  tired  shouting  New 
York  all  the  time.  Every  night  he'd  tell  us  about 
East  River  and  J.  P.  Morgan  and  the  Eden  Musee 
and  Hetty  Green  and  Central  Park  till  we  used  to 
throw  tin  plates  and  branding  irons  at  him. 

"One  day  this  chap  gets  on  a  pitching  pony,  and 
the  pony  kind  of  sidled  up  his  back  and  went  to  eating 
grass  while  the  New  Yorker  was  coming  down. 

"He  come  down  on  his  head  on  a  chunk  of  mesquit 
wood,  and  he  didn't  show  any  designs  toward  getting 
up  again.  We  laid  him  out  in  a  tent,  and  he  begun 
to  look  pretty  dead.  So  Gideon  Pease  saddles  up  and 
burns  the  wind  for  old  Doc  Sleeper's  residence  in 
Dogtown,  thirty  miles  away. 

"The  doctor  comes  over  and  he  investigates  the 
patient. 

"'Boys,'  says  he,  'you  might  as  well  go  to  playing 
seven-up  for  his  saddle  and  clothes,  for  his  head's 
fractured  and  if  he  lives  ten  minutes  it  will  be  a  re- 
markable case  of  longevity.' 

"Of  course  we  didn't  gamble  for  the  poor  rooster's 
saddle  —  that  was  one  of  Doc's  jokes.  But  we  stood 
around  feeling  solemn,  and  all  of  us  forgive  him  for 
having  talked  us  to  death  about  New  York. 

"I  nevw  saw  anybody  about  to  haiid  in  his  checks 


New  York  by  Camp  Fire  Light        203 

act  more  peaceful  than  this  fellow.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  'way  up  in  the  air,  and  he  was  using  rambling 
words  to  himself  all  about  sweet  music  and  beautiful 
streets  and  white-robed  forms,  and  he  was  smiling 
like  dying  was  a  pleasure. 

"'He's  about  gone  now,'  said  Doc.  'Whenever 
they  begin  to  think  they  see  heaven  it's  all  off.' 

"Blamed  if  that  New  York  man  didn't  sit  right  up 
when  he  heard  the  Doc  say  that. 

"'Say,'  says  he,  kind  of  disappointed,  'was  that 
heaven.?  Confound  it  all,  I  thought  it  was  Broadway. 
Some  of  you  fellows  get  my  clothes.  I'm  going  to 
get  up.' 

"And  I'll  be  blamed,"  concluded  Bud,  "if  he 
wasn't  on  the  train  with  a  ticket  for  New  York  in  his 
pocket  four  days  afterward!" 


XVIII 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  SHAMROCK  JOLNES 

1  AM  so  fortunate  as  to  count  Shamrock  Jolnes,  the 
great  New  York  detective,  among  my  muster  of 
friends.  Jolnes  is  what  is  called  the  "inside  man" 
of  the  city  detective  force.  He  is  an  expert  in  the 
use  of  the  typewriter,  and  it  is  his  duty,  whenever 
there  is  a  "murder  mystery"  to  be  solved,  to  sit  at  a 
desk  telephone  at  headquarters  and  take  down  the 
messages  of  "cranks"  who  'phone  in  their  confessions 
to  having  committed  the  crime. 

But  on  certain  "ofiF"  days  when  confessions  are 
coming  in  slowly  and  three  or  four  newspapers  have 
run  to  earth  as  many  different  guilty  persons,  Jolnes 
will  knock  about  the  town  with  me,  exhibiting,  to 
my  great  delight  and  instruction,  his  marvellous  powers 
of  observation  and  deduction. 

The  other  day  I  dropped  in  at  Headquarters  and 
found  the  great  detective  gazing  thoughtfully  at  a 
string  that  was  tied  tightly  around  his  little  finger. 

"Good  morning,  Whatsup,"  he  said,  without  turning 
his  head.  "I'm  glad  to  notice  that  you've  had  your 
house  fitted  up  with  electric  lights  at  last." 

204 


The  Adventures  of  Shamrock  Jolnes  205 

"Will  you  please  tell  me,"  I  said,  in  surprise,  "how 
you  knew  that?  I  am  sure  that  I  never  mentioned 
the  fact  to  any  one,  and  the  wiring  was  a  rush  order 
not  completed  until  this  morning." 

"Nothing  easier,"  said  Jolnes,  genially.  "As  you 
came  in  I  caught  the  odour  of  the  cigar  you  are  smoking. 
I  know  an  expensive  cigar;  and  I  know  that  not 
more  than  three  men  in  New  York  can  afford  to 
smoke  cigars  and  pay  gas  bills  too  at  the  present  time. 
That  was  an  easy  one.  But  I  am  working  just  now 
on  a  little  problem  of  my  own." 

"Why  have  you  that  string  on  your  finger?"  I 
asked. 

"That's  the  problem,"  said  Jolnes.  "My  wife 
tied  that  on  this  morning  to  remind  me  of  something 
I  was  to  send  up  to  the  house.  Sit  down,  Whatsup, 
and  excuse  me  for  a  few  moments." 

The  distinguished  detective  went  to  a  wall  telephone, 
and  stood  with  the  receiver  to  his  ear  for  probably 
ten  minutes. 

"Were  you  listening  to  a  confession?"  I  asked, 
when  he  had  returned  to  his  chair. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Jolnes,  with  a  smile,  "it  might  be 
called  something  of  the  sort.  To  be  frank  with  you, 
Whatsup,  I've  cut  out  the  dope.  I've  been  increasing 
the  quantity  for  so  long  that  morphine  doesn't  have 
much  effect  on  me  any  more.  I've  got  to  have  some- 
thing more  powerful.     That  telephone  I  just  went 


206  Sixes  and  Sevens 

to  is  connected  with  a  room  in  the  Waldorf  where 
there's  an  author's  reading  in  progress.  Now,  to 
get  at  the  solution  of  this  string." 

After  five  minutes  of  silent  pondering,  Jolnes  looked 
at  me,  with  a  smile,  and  nodded  his  head. 

"Wonderful  man!"  I  exclaimed;   "already?" 

"It  is  quite  simple,"  he  said,  holding  up  his  finger. 
"  You  see  that  knot?  That  is  to  prevent  my  forgetting. 
It  is,  therefore,  a  forget-me-knot.  A  forget-me-not 
is  a  flower.  It  was  a  sack  of  flour  that  I  was  to  send 
home!" 

"  Beautiful ! "  I  could  not  help  crying  out  in  admira- 
tion. 

"Suppose  we  go  out  for  a  ramble,"  suggested  Jolnes. 

"There  is  only  one  case  of  importance  on  hand  just 
now.  Old  man  McCarty,  one  hundred  and  four 
years  old,  died  from  eating  too  many  bananas.  The 
evidence  points  so  strongly  to  the  Mafia  that  the 
police  have  surrounded  the  Second  Avenue  Katzen- 
jammer  Gambrinus  Club  No.  2,  and  the  capture  of 
the  assassin  is  only  the  matter  of  a  few  hours.  The 
detective  force  has  not  yet  been  called  on  for  assist- 
ance." 

Jolnes  and  I  went  out  and  up  the  street  toward  the 
comer,  where  we  were  to  catch  a  surface  car. 

Half-way  up  the  block  we  met  Rheingelder,  an 
acquaintance  of  ours,  who  held  a  City  Hall  position. 

"Good  morning,  Rheingelder,"  said  Jolnes,  halting. 


The  Adventures  of  Shamrock  Jolnes  207 

"Nice  breakfast  that  was  you  had  this  morning." 

Always  on  the  lookout  for  the  detective's  remark- 
able feats  of  deduction,  I  saw  Jolnes's  eye  flash  for 
an  instant  upon  a  long  yellow  splash  on  the  shirt 
bosom  and  a  smaller  one  upon  the  chin  of  Rhein- 
gelder  —  both  undoubtedly  made  by  the  yolk  of  an  egg. 

"Oh,  dot  is  some  of  your  detectiveness,"  said  Rhein- 
gelder,  shaking  all  over  with  a  smile.  "Veil,  I  pet 
you  trinks  und  cigars  all  round  dot  you  cannot  tell  vot 
I  haf  eaten  for  breakfast," 

"Done,"  said  Jolnes.  "Sausage,  pumpernickel  and 
coffee." 

Rheingelder  admitted  the  correctness  of  the  surmise 
and  paid  the  bet.  When  we  had  proceeded  on  our 
way  I  said  to  Jolnes: 

"I  thought  you  looked  at  the  egg  spilled  on  his  chin 
and  shirt  front." 

"I  did,"  said  Jolnes.  "That  is  where  I  began  my 
deduction.  Rheingelder  is  a  very  economical,  saving 
man.  Yesterday  eggs  dropped  in  the  market  to 
twenty-eight  cents  per  dozen.  To-day  they  are 
quoted  at  forty-two.  Rheingelder  ate  eggs  yesterday, 
and  to-day  he  went  back  to  his  usual  fare.  A  little 
thing  like  this  isn't  anything,  Whatsup;  it  belongs  to 
the  primary  arithmetic  class." 

When  we  boarded  the  street  car  we  found  the  seats 
all  occupied  —  principally  by  ladies.  Jolnes  and  I 
stood  on  the  rear  platform* 


208  Sixes  and  Sevens 

About  the  middle  of  the  car  there  sat  an  elderly 
man  with  a  short,  gray  beard,  who  looked  to  be  the 
typical,  well-dressed  New  Yorker.  At  successive 
corners  other  ladies  climbed  aboard,  and  soon  three 
or  four  of  them  were  standing  over  the  man,  clinging 
to  straps  and  glaring  meaningly  at  the  man  who 
occupied  the  coveted  seat.  But  he  resolutely  re» 
tained  his  place. 

"We  New  Yorkers,"  I  remarked  to  Jolnes,  "have 
about  lost  our  manners,  as  far  as  the  exercise  of  them 
in  public  goes." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Jolnes,  lightly;  "but  the  man 
you  evidently  refer  to  happens  to  be  a  very  chivalrous 
and  courteous  gentleman  from  Old  Virginia.  He  is 
spending  a  few  days  in  New  York  with  his  wife  and 
two  daughters,  and  he  leaves  for  the  South  to-night." 

"You   know  him,   then?"   I   said,   in   amazement. 

"I  never  saw  him  before  we  stepped  on  the  car," 
declared  the  detective,  smilingly. 

"By  the  gold  tooth  of  the  Witch  of  Endor!"  I 
cried,  "if  you  can  construe  all  that  from  his  appearance 
you  are  dealing  in  nothing  else  than  black  art." 

"The  habit  of  observation  —  nothing  more,"  said 
Jolnes.  "If  the  old  gentleman  gets  off  the  car  before 
we  do,  I  think  I  can  demonstrate  to  you  the  accuracy 
of  my  deduction." 

Three  blocks  farther  along  the  gentleman  rose  to 
leave  the  car.     Jolnes  addressed  him  at  the  door: 


The  Adventures  of  Shamrock  Jolnes  209 

"Pardon  me,  sir,  but  are  you  not  Colonel  Hunter,  of 
Norfolk,  Virginia?" 

"No,  suli,"  was  the  extremely  courteous  answer. 
"My  name,  suh,  is  Ellison  —  Major  Winfield  R. 
Ellison,  from  Fairfax  County,  in  the  same  state.  I 
know  a  good  many  people,  suh,  in  Norfolk  —  the 
Goodriches,  the  Tollivers,  and  the  Crabtrees,  suh, 
but  I  never  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  yo'  friend. 
Colonel  Hunter.  I  am  happy  to  say,  suh,  that  I  am 
going  back  to  Virginia  to-night,  after  having  spent  a 
week  in  yo'  city  with  my  wife  and  three  daughters. 
I  shall  be  in  Norfolk  in  about  ten  days,  and  if  you 
will  give  me  yo'  name,  suh,  I  will  take  pleasure  in 
looking  up  Colonel  Hunter  and  telling  him  that  you 
inquired  after  him,  suh." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Jolnes;  "tell  him  that  Reynolds 
sent  his  regards,  if  you  will  be  so  kind." 

I  glanced  at  the  great  New  York  detective  and  saw 
that  a  look  of  intense  chagrin  had  come  upon  his 
clear-cut  features.  Failure  in  the  slightest  point  al- 
ways galled  Shamrock  Jolnes. 

"Did  you  say  your  three  daughters?"  he  asked  of 
the  Virginia  gentleman. 

"Yes,  suh,  my  three  daughters,  all  as  fine  girls  as 
there  are  in  Fairfax  County,"  was  the  answer. 

With  that  Major  Ellison  stopped  the  car  and  began 
to  descend  the  step. 

Shamrock  Jolnes  clutched  his  arm. 


210  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"One  moment,  sir,"  he  begged,  in  an  urbane  voice 
in  which  I  alone  detected  the  anxiety — "am  I  not 
right  in  beheving  that  one  of  the  young  ladies  is  an 
adopted  daughter?" 

"You  are,  suh,"  admitted  the  major,  from  the 
ground,  "but  how  the  devil  you  knew  it,  suh,  is  mo' 
than  I  can  tell." 

"And  mo'  than  I  can  tell,  too,"  I  said,  as  the  car 
went  on. 

Jolnes  was  restored  to  his  calm,  observant  serenity 
by  having  wrested  victory  from  his  apparent  failure; 
so  after  we  got  off  the  car  he  invited  me  into  a  cafe, 
promising  to  reveal  the  process  of  his  latest  wonderful 
feat. 

"In  the  first  place,"  he  began  after  we  were  com- 
fortably seated,  "I  knew  the  gentleman  was  no  New 
Yorker  because  he  was  flushed  and  uneasy  and  restless 
on  account  of  the  ladies  that  were  standing,  although 
he  did  not  rise  and  give  them  his  seat.  I  decided 
from  his  appearance  that  he  was  a  Southerner  rather 
than  a  Westerner. 

"Next  I  began  to  figure  out  his  reason  for  not  re- 
linquishing his  seat  to  a  lady  when  he  evidently  felt 
strongly,  but  not  overpoweringly,  impelled  to  do  so. 
I  very  quickly  decided  upon  that.  I  noticed  that 
one  of  his  eyes  had  received  a  severe  jab  in  one  corner, 
which  was  red  and  inflamed,  and  that  all  over  his  face 
were  tiny  round  marks  about  the  size  of  the  end 


The  Adventures  oj  Shamrock  Jolnes  211 

of  an  uncut  lead  pencil.  Also  upon  both  of  his  patent 
leather  shoes  were  a  number  of  deep  imprints  shaped 
like  ovals  cut  off  square  at  one  end, 

"Now,  there  is  only  one  district  in  New  York  City 
where  a  man  is  bound  to  receive  scars  and  wounds 
and  indentations  of  that  sort  —  and  that  is  along  the 
sidewalks  of  Twenty -third  Street  and  a  portion  of 
Sixth  Avenue  south  of  there.  I  knew  from  the  im- 
prints of  trampling  French  heels  on  his  feet  and  the 
marks  of  countless  jabs  in  the  face  from  umbrellas 
and  parasols  carried  by  women  in  the  shopping  dis- 
trict that  he  had  been  in  conflict  with  the  amazonian 
troops.  And  as  he  was  a  man  of  intelligent  appear- 
ance, I  knew  he  would  not  have  braved  such  dangers 
unless  he  had  been  dragged  thither  by  his  own  women 
folk.  Therefore,  when  he  got  on  the  car  his  anger 
at  the  treatment  he  had  received  was  sufficient  to 
make  him  keep  his  seat  in  spite  of  his  traditions  of 
Southern  chivalry." 

"That  is  all  very  well,"  I  said,  "but  why  did  you 
insist  upon  daughters  —  and  especially  two  daughters? 
Why  couldn't  a  wife  alone  have  taken  him  shopping?" 

"There  had  to  be  daughters,"  said  Jolnes,  calmly. 
"If  he  had  only  a  wife,  and  she  near  his  own  age,  he 
could  have  bluffed  her  into  going  alone.  If  he  had  a 
young  wife  she  would  prefer  to  go  alone.  So  there 
you  are." 

"I'll  admit  that,"   I  said;   "but,   now,   why  two 


212  Sixes  and  Sevens 

daughters?  And  how,  in  the  name  of  all  the  prophets, 
did  you  guess  that  one  was  adopted  when  he  told 
you  he  had  three?  " 

"Don't  say  guess,"  said  Jolnes,  with  a  touch  of 
pride  in  his  air;  "there  is  no  such  word  in  the  lexicon 
of  ratiocination.  In  Major  Ellison's  buttonhole  there 
was  a  carnation  and  a  rosebud  backed  by  a  geranium 
leaf.  No  woman  ever  combined  a  carnation  and  a 
rosebud  into  a  boutonniere.  Close  your  eyes,  Whatsup, 
and  give  the  logic  of  your  imagination  a  chance. 
Cannot  you  see  the  lovely  Adele  fastening  the  carna- 
tion to  the  lapel  so  that  papa  may  be  gay  upon  the 
street?  And  then  the  romping  Edith  May  dancing 
up  with  sisterly  jealousy  to  add  her  rosebud  to  the 
adornment?" 

"And  then,"  I  cried,  beginning  to  feel  enthusiasm, 
"when  he  declared  that  he  had  three  daughters" 

"I  could  see,"  said  Jolnes,  "one  in  the  background 
who  added  no  flower;  and  I  knew  that  she  must 
be " 

"Adopted!"  I  broke  in.  "I  give  you  every 
credit;  but  how  did  you  know  he  was  leaving  for  the 
South  to-night?" 

"In  his  breast  pocket,"  said  the  great  detective, 
"something  large  and  oval  made  a  protuberance. 
Good  liquor  is  scarce  on  trains,  and  it  is  a  long  journey 
from  New  York  to  Fairfax  County." 

"Again,  I  must  bow  to  you,"  I  said.     "And  tell 


The  Adventures  of  Shamrock  Jolnes  213 

me  this,  so  that  my  last  shred  of  doubt  will  be 
cleared  away;  why  did  you  decide  that  he  was  from 
Virginia?" 

"It  was  very  faint,  I  admit,"  answered  Shamrock 
Jolnes,  "but  no  trained  observer  could  have  failed 
to  detect  the  odour  of  mint  in  the  car.  ' 


XIX 

THE  LADY  HIGHER  UP 

New  YORK  CITY,  they  said,  was  deserted;  and 
that  accounted,  doubtless,  for  the  sounds  carrying  so 
far  in  the  tranquil  summer  air.  The  breeze  was  south- 
by-southwest ;  the  hour  was  midnight;  the  theme  was 
a  bit  of  feminine  gossip  by  wireless  mythology.  Three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  feet  above  the  heated  asphalt 
the  tiptoeing  symbolic  deity  on  Manhattan  pointed 
her  vacillating  arrow  straight,  for  the  time,  in  the 
direction  of  her  exalted  sister  on  Liberty  Island.  The 
lights  of  the  great  Garden  were  out;  the  benches  in 
the  Square  were  filled  with  sleepers  in  postures  so 
strange  that  beside  them  the  writhing  figures  in  Dore's 
illustrations  of  the  Inferno  would  have  straightened 
into  tailor's  dummies.  The  statue  of  Diana  on  the 
tower  of  the  Garden  —  its  constancy  shown  by  its 
weathercock  ways,  its  innocence  by  the  coating  of 
gold  that  it  has  acquired,  its  devotion  to  style  by  its 
single,  graceful  flying  scarf,  its  candour  and  artlessness 
by  its  habit  of  ever  drawing  the  long  bow,  its  metro- 
politanism  by  its  posture  of  swift  flight  to  catch  a 
Harlem  train  —  remained  poised  with  its  arrow  pointed 

214 


The  Lady  Higher  Up  215 

across  the  upper  bay.  Had  that  arrow  sped  truly  and 
horizontally  it  would  have  passed  fifty  feet  above  the 
head  of  the  heroic  matron  whose  duty  it  is  to  offer 
a  cast-ironical  welcome  to  the  oppressed  of  other  lands. 

Seaward  this  lady  gazed,  and  the  furrows  between 
steamship  lines  began  to  cut  steerage  rates.  The 
translators,  too,  have  put  an  extra  burden  upon  her. 
"  Liberty  Lighting  the  World  "  (as  her  creator  christ- 
ened her)  would  have  had  a  no  more  responsible  duty, 
except  for  the  size  of  it,  than  that  of  an  electrician  or 
a  Standard  Oil  magnate.  But  to  "enlighten"  the 
world  (as  our  learned  civic  guardians  "Englished"  it) 
requires  abler  qualities.  And  so  poor  Liberty,  instead 
of  having  a  sinecure  as  a  mere  illuminator,  must  be 
converted  into  a  Chautauqua  schoolma'am,  with  the 
oceans  for  her  field  instead  of  the  placid,  classic  lake. 
With  a  fireless  torch  and  an  empty  head  must  she  dis- 
pel the  shadows  of  the  world  and  teach  it  its  A,  B,  C's. 

"Ah,  there,  Mrs.  Liberty!"  called  a  clear,  rollick- 
ing soprano  voice  through  the  still,  midnight  air. 

"Is  that  you,  Miss  Diana.?  Excuse  my  not  turning 
my  head.  I'm  not  as  flighty  and  whirly-whirly  as  some. 
And  'tis  so  hoarse  I  am  I  can  hardly  talk  on  account 
of  the  peanut-hulls  left  on  the  stairs  in  me  throat  by 
that  last  boatload  of  tourists  from  Marietta,  Ohio. 
'Tis  after  being  a  fine  evening,  miss." 

"If  you  don't  mind  my  asking,  "came  the  bell-like 
tones  of  the  golden  statue,  "I'd  like  to  know  where 


216  Sixes  and  Sevens 

you  got  that  City  Hall  brogue.     I  didn't  know  that 
Liberty  was  necessarily  Irish." 

"If  ye'd  studied  the  history  of  art  in  its  foreign 
complications  ye'd  not  need  to  ask,"  replied  the 
offshore  statue.  "If  ye  wasn't  so  light-headed  and 
giddy  ye'd  know  that  I  was  made  by  a  Dago  and  pre- 
sented to  the  American  people  on  behalf  of  the  French 
Government  for  the  purpose  of  welcomin'  Irish 
immigrants  into  the  Dutch  city  of  New  York.  'Tis 
that  I've  been  doing  night  and  day  since  I  was  erected. 
Ye  must  know,  Miss  Diana,  that  'tis  with  statues  the 
same  as  with  people  —  'tis  not  their  makers  nor  the 
purposes  for  which  they  were  created  that  influence 
the  operations  of  their  tongues  at  all  —  it's  the  asso- 
ciations with  which  they  become  associated,  I'm  telling 

ye." 

"You're  dead  right,"  agreed  Diana.  "I  notice  it 
on  myself.  If  any  of  the  old  guys  from  Olympus  were 
to  come  along  and  hand  me  any  hot  air  in  the  ancient 
Greek  I  couldn't  tell  it  from  a  conversation  between 
a  Coney  Island  car  conductor  and  a  five-cent  fare. " 

"I'm  right  glad  ye've  made  up  your  mind  to  be 
sociable.  Miss  Diana,"  said  Mrs.  Liberty.  "'Tis  a 
lonesome  life  I  have  down  here.  Is  there  anything 
doin'  up  in  the  city.  Miss  Diana,  dear?" 

"Oh,  la,  la,  la!  —  no,"  said  Diana.  "Notice  that 
'la,  la,  la,'  Aunt  Liberty?  Got  that  from  Taris  by 
Night'  on  the  roof  garden  under  me.     You'll  hear  that 


The  Lady  Higher  Up  217 

'la,  la,  la'  at  the  Cafe  McCann  now,  along  with  'gar- 
song.'  The  bohemian  crowd  there  have  become  tired 
of  'garsong'  since  O'Rafferty,  the  head  waiter,  punched 
three  of  them  for  calling  him  it.  Oh,  no;  the  town's 
strickly  on  the  bum  these  nights.  Everybody's 
away.  Saw  a  downtown  merchant  on  a  roof  garden 
this  evening  with  his  stenographer.  Show  was  so  dull 
he  went  to  sleep.  A  waiter  biting  on  a  dime  tip  to 
see  if  it  was  good  half  woke  him  up.  He  looks  around 
and  sees  his  little  pothooks  perpetrator.  'H'm!' 
says  he,  'will  you  take  a  letter,  Miss  De  St.  Mont- 
morency?' 'Sure,  in  a  minute,'  says  she,  'if  you'll 
make  it  an  X.' 

"That  was  the  best  thing  happened  on  the  roof. 
So  you  see  how  dull  it  is.     La,  la,  la!" 

"  'Tis  fine  ye  have  it  up  there  in  society.  Miss  Diana. 
Ye  have  the  cat  show  and  the  horse  show  and  the 
military  tournaments  where  the  privates  look  grand 
as  generals  and  the  generals  try  to  look  grand  as 
floor-walkers.  And  ye  have  the  Sportsmen's  Show, 
where  the  girl  that  measures  36,  19,  45  cooks  breakfast 
food  in  a  birch-bark  wigwam  on  the  banks  of  the  Grand 
Canal  of  Venice  conducted  by  one  of  the  Vanderbilts, 
Bernard  McFadden,  and  the  Reverends  Dowie  and 
Duss.  And  ye  have  the  French  ball,  where  the  origi- 
nal Cohens  and  the  Robert  Emmet-Sangerbund  Society 
dance  the  Highland  fling  one  with  another.  And 
ye  have  the  grand  O'Ryan  ball,  which  is  the  most 


218  Sixes  and  Sevens 

beautiful  pageant  in  the  world,  where  the  French 
students  vie  with  the  Tyrolean  warblers  in  doin' 
the  cake  walk.  Ye  have  the  best  job  for  a  statue  in 
the  whole  town,  Miss  Diana." 

"  'Tis  weary  work,"  sighed  the  island  statue,  "dis- 
seminatin'  the  science  of  liberty  in  New  York  Bay. 
Sometimes  when  I  take  a  peep  down  at  Ellis  Island 
and  see  the  gang  of  immigrants  I'm  supposed  to  light 
up,  'tis  tempted  I  am  to  blow  out  the  gas  and  let  the 
coroner  write  out  their  naturalization  papers." 

"Say,  it's  a  shame,  ain't  it,  to  give  you  the  worst 
end  of  it?"  came  the  sympathetic  antiphony  of  the 
steeplechase  goddess.  "It  must  be  awfully  lonesome 
down  there  with  so  much  water  around  you.  I  don't 
see  how  you  ever  keep  your  hair  in  curl.  And  that 
Mother  Hubbard  you  are  wearing  went  out  ten  years 
ago.  I  think  those  sculptor  guys  ought  to  be  held  for 
damages  for  putting  iron  or  marble  clothes  on  a  lady. 
That's  where  Mr.  St.  Gaudens  was  wise.  I'm  always 
a  little  ahead  of  the  styles;  but  they're  coming  my  way 
pretty  fast.  Excuse  my  back  a  moment  —  I  caught 
a  puff  of  wind  from  the  north  —  shouldn't  wonder  if 
things  had  loosened  up  in  Esopus.  There,  now!  it's 
in  the  West  —  I  should  think  that  gold  plank  would 
have  calmed  the  air  out  in  that  direction.  What  were 
you  saying,  Mrs.  Liberty?  " 

"A  fine  chat  I've  had  with  ye,  Miss  Diana,  ma'am, 
but  I  see  one  of  them  European  steamers  a-sailin' 


The  Lady  Higher  Up  219 

up  the  Narrows,  and  I  must  be  attendin'  to  me  duties. 
'Tis  me  job  to  extend  aloft  the  torch  of  Liberty  to 
welcome  all  them  that  survive  the  kicks  that  the 
steerage  stewards  give  'em  while  landin.'  Sure  'tis 
a  great  country  ye  can  come  to  for  $8.50,  and  the  doctor 
waitin'  to  send  ye  back  home  free  if  he  sees  yer  eyes 
red  from  cryin'  for  it. " 

The  golden  statue  veered  in  the  changing  breeze, 
menacing  many  points  on  the  horizon  with  its  aureate' 
arrow. 

"So  long,  Aunt  Liberty,"  sweetly  called  Diana  of 
the  Tower.     "Some  night,  when  the  wind's  right,  I'll 
call    you    up    again.     But -say!     you    haven't    got 
such  a  fierce  kick  coming  about  your  job.     I've  kept  a 
pretty  good  watch  on  the  island  of  Manhattan  since 
I've    been    up    here.     That's    a  pretty    sick-looking 
bunch  of  liberty  chasers  they  dump  down  at  your  end 
of  it;  but  they  don't  all  stay  that  way.     Every  little 
while  up  here  I  see  guys  signing  checks  and  voting  the 
right  ticket,  and  encouraging  the  arts  and  taking  a 
bath  every  morning,  that  was  shoved  ashore  by  a 
dock  labourer  born  in  the  United  States  who  never 
earned  over  forty  dollars  a  month.     Don't  run  down 
your  job,  Aunt  Liberty;  you're  all  right,  all  right. " 


XX 

THE  GREATER  CONEY 

"Next  Sunday, "  said  Dennis  Carnahan,"I'll  be  after 
going  down  to  see  the  new  Coney  Island  that's  risen 
like  a  phcenix  bird  from  the  ashes  of  the  old  resort. 
I'm  going  with  Norah  Flynn,  and  we'll  fall  victims 
to  all  the  dry  goods  deceptions,  from  the  red-flannel 
eruption  of  Mount  Vesuvius  to  the  pink  silk  ribbons 
on  the  race-suicide  problems  in  the  incubator  kiosk. 

"Was  I  there  before.'*  I  was.  I  was  there  last 
Tuesday.     Did  I  see  the  sights.'^     I  did  not. 

"Last  Monday  I  amalgamated  myself  with  the  Brick- 
layers' Union,  and  in  accordance  with  the  rules  I  was 
ordered  to  quit  work  the  same  day  on  account  of  a 
sympathy  strike  with  the  Lady  Salmon  Canners' 
Lodge  No.  2,  of  Tacoma,  Washington. 

"  'Twas  disturbed  I  was  in  mind  and  proclivities  by 
losing  me  job,  bein'  already  harassed  in  me  soul  on 
account  of  havin'  quarrelled  with  Norah  Flynn  a  week 
before  by  reason  of  hard  words  spoken  at  the  Dairymen 
and  Street-Sprinkler  Drivers'  semi-annual  ball,  caused 
by  jealousy  and  prickly  heat  and  that  divil,  Andy 
Coghlin. 

220 


The  Greater  Coney  221 

"So,  I  says,  it  will  be  Coney  for  Tuesday;  and  if 
the  chutes  and  the  short  change  and  the  green-corn 
silk  between  the  teeth  don't  create  diversions  and  get 
me  feeling  better,  then  I  don't  know  at  all. 

'  *  Ye  will  have  heard  that  Coney  has  received  moral 
reconstruction.  The  old  Bowery,  where  they  used 
to  take  your  tintype  by  force  and  give  ye  knockout 
drops  before  having  your  palm  read,  is  now  called 
the  Wall  Street  of  the  island.  The  wienerwurst  stands 
are  required  by  law  to  keep  a  news  ticker  in  'em;  and 
the  doughnuts  are  examined  every  four  years  by  a 
retired  steamboat  inspector.  The  nigger  man's  head 
that  was  used  by  the  old  patrons  to  throw  baseballs 
at  is  now  illegal;  and,  by  order  of  the  Police  Com- 
missioner the  image  of  a  man  drivin'  an  automobile 
has  been  substituted.  I  hear  that  the  old  immoral 
amusements  have  been  suppressed.  People  who  used 
to  go  down  from  New  York  to  sit  in  the  sand  and  dabble 
in  the  surf  now  give  up  their  quarters  to  squeeze 
through  turnstiles  and  see  imitations  of  city  fires  and 
floods  painted  on  canvas.  The  reprehensible  and  de- 
gradin'  resorts  that  disgraced  old  Coney  are  said  to 
be  wiped  out.  The  wipin'-out  process  consists  of 
raisin'  the  price  from  10  cents  to  25  cents,  and  hirin'  a 
blonde  named  Maudie  to  sell  tickets  instead  of  Micky, 
the  Bowery  Bite.  That's  what  they  say  —  I  don't 
know. 

"But  to  Coney  I  goes  a-Tuesday.     I  gets  off  the 


222  Sixes  and  Sevens 

*L'  and  starts  for  the  glitterin'  show.  'Twas  a  fine 
sight.  The  Babylonian  towers  and  the  Hindoo  roof 
gardens  was  blazin'  with  thousands  of  electric  lights, 
and  the  streets  was  thick  with  people.  'Tis  a  true 
thing  they  say  that  Coney  levels  all  rank.  I  see 
millionaires  eatin'  popcorn  and  trampin'  along  with 
the  crowd;  and  I  see  eight-doll ar-a- week  clothin'- 
store  clerks  in  red  automobiles  fight  in'  one  another 
for  who'd  squeeze  the  horn  when  they  come  to  a  corner. 

"  'I  made  a  mistake,'  I  says  to  myself.  'Twas 
not  Coney  I  needed.  When  a  man's  sad  'tis  not  scenes 
of  hilaiity  he  wants.  'Twould  be  far  better  for  him 
to  meditate  in  a  graveyard  or  to  attend  services  at 
the  Paradise  Roof  Gardens.  'Tis  no  consolation 
when  a  man's  lost  his  sweetheart  to  order  hot  corn 
and  have  the  waiter  bring  him  the  powdered  sugar 
cruet  instead  of  salt  and  then  conceal  himself,  or  to 
have  Zozookum,  the  gipsy  palmist,  tell  him  that  he 
has  three  children  and  to  look  out  for  another  serious 
calamity;  price  twenty-five  cents. 

"I  walked  far  away  down  on  the  beach,  to  the  ruins 
of  an  old  pavilion  near  one  corner  of  this  new  private 
park,  Dreamland.  A  year  ago  that  old  pavilion  was 
standin'  up  straight  and  the  old-style  waiters  was 
slammin'  a  week's  supply  of  clam  chowder  down  in 
front  of  you  for  a  nickel  and  callin'  you  'cully'  friendly, 
and  vice  was  rampant,  and  you  got  back  to  New  York 
with  enough  change  to  take  a  car  at  the  bridge.     Now 


The  Greater  Cojiey  223 

they  tell  me  that  they  serve  Welsh  rabbits  on  Surf 
Avenue,  and  you  get  the  right  change  back  in  the 
movin'-picture  joints. 

"I  sat  down  at  one  side  of  the  old  pavilion  and  looked 
at  the  surf  spreadin'  itself  on  the  beach,  and  thought 
about  the  time  me  and  Norah  Flynn  sat  on  that  spot 
last  summer.     'Twas  before  reform  struck  the  island; 
and  we  was  happy.     We  had  tintypes  and  chowder  in 
the  ribald  dives,  and  the  Egyptian  Sorceress  of  the 
Nile  told  Norah  out  of  her  hand,  while  I  was  waitin'  in 
the  door,  that  'twould  be  the  luck  of  her  to  marry  a 
red-headed  gossoon  with  two  crooked  legs,  and  I  was 
overrunnin'  with  joy  on  account  of  the  allusion.     And 
'twas  there  that  Norah  Flynn  put  her  two  hands  in 
mine  a  year  before  and  we  talked  of  jHats  and  the  things 
she  could  cook  and  the  love  business  that  goes  with 
such  episodes.     And  that  was  Coney  as  we  loved  it, 
and  as  the  hand  of  Satan  was  upon  it,  friendly  and 
noisy  and  your  money's  worth,  with  no  fence  around 
ihe  ocean  and  not  too  many  electric  lights  to  show  the 
sleeve  of  a  black  serge  coat  against  a  white  shirtwaist. 
"I  sat  with  my  back  to  the  parks  where  they  had 
the  moon  and  the  dreams  and  the  steeples  corralled, 
and  longed  for  the  old  Coney.     There  wasn't  many 
people    on    the    beach.     Lots    of    them    was    feedin' 
pennies  into  the  slot  machines  to  see  the  'Interrupted 
Courtship'  in  the  niovin'  pictures;  and  a  good  many 
was  takin'  the  sea  air  in  the  Canals  of  Venice  and  some 


224  Sixes  and  Sevens 

was  breathin'  the  smoke  of  the  sea  battle  by  actual 
warships  in  a  tank  filled  with  real  water.  A  few  was 
down  on  the  sands  enjoyin'  the  moonlight  and  the 
water.  And  the  heart  of  me  was  heavy  for  the  new 
morals  of  the  old  island,  while  the  bands  behind  me 
played  and  the  sea  pounded  on  the  bass  drum  in 
front. 

"And  directly  I  got  up  and  walked  along  the  old 
pavilion,  and  there  on  the  other  side  of,  half  in  the 
dark,  was  a  slip  of  a  girl  sittin'  on  the  tumble-down 
timbers,  and  unless  I'm  a  liar  she  was  cryin'  by  herself 
there,  all  alone. 

"'Is  it  trouble  you  are  in,  now.  Miss,'  says  I;  'and 
what's  to  be  done  about  it.''' 

"'  'Tis  none  of  your  business  at  all,  Denny  Carna- 
han,'  says  she,  sittin'  up  straight.  And  it  was  the 
voice  of  no  other  than  Norah  Flynn. 

"'Then  it's  not,'  says  I,  'and  we're  after  having  a 
pleasant  evening.  Miss  Flynn.  Have  ye  seen  the 
sights  of  this  new  Coney  Island,  then.?  I  presume  ye 
have  come  here  for  that  purpose,'  says  I. 

"*I  have,'  says  she.  'Me  mother  and  Uncle  Tim 
they  are  waiting  beyond.  'Tis  an  elegant  evening 
I've  had.     I've  seen  all  the  attractions  that  be.' 

'"Right  ye  are,'  says  I  to  Norah;  and  I  don't  know 
when  I've  been  that  amused.  After  disportin'  me- 
self  among  the  most  laughable  moral  improvements 
of  the  revised  shell  games  I  took  meself  to  the  shore 


The  Greater  Coney  225 

for  the  benefit  of  the  cool  air.  'And  did  ye  observe 
the  Durbar,  Miss  Flynn?' 

"'I  did,'  says  she,  reflectin';  'but  'tis  not  safe,  I'm 
thinkin',  to  ride  down  them  slantin'  things  into  the 
water.' 

"'How  did  ye  fancy  the  shoot  the  chutes?'  I  asks. 

"'True,  then,  I'm  afraid  of  guns,'  says  Norah. 
'They  make  such  noise  in  my  ears.  But  Uncle  Tim, 
he  shot  them,  he  did,  and  won  cigars.  'Tis  a  fine  time 
we  had  this  day,  Mr.  Carnahan.' 

"'I'm  glad  you've  enjoyed  yerself,'  I  says.  'I 
suppose  you've  had  a  roarin'  fine  time  seein'  the  sights. 
And  how  did  the  incubators  and  the  helter-skelter 
and  the  midgets  suit  the  taste  of  ye.'*' 

"'I  —  I  wasn't  hungry,'  says  Norah,  faint.  'But 
mother  ate  a  quantity  of  all  of  'em.  I'm  that  pleased 
with  the  fine  things  in  the  new  Coney  Island,'  says 
she,  'that  it's  the  happiest  day  I've  seen  in  a  long  time, 
at  all.' 

"'Did  you  see  Venice?'  says  I. 

"'We  did,'  says  she.  'She  was  a  beauty.  She  was 
all  dressed  in  red,  she  was,  with '  • 

"I  listened  no  more  to  Norah  Flynn.  I  stepped 
up  and  I  gathered  her  in  my  arms. 

""Tis  a  story-teller  ye  are,  Norah  Flynn',  says  I. 
'Ye've  seen  no  more  of  the  greater  Coney  Island  than 
I  have  meself .  Come,  now,  tell  the  truth  —  ye  came 
to  sit  by  the  old  pavilion  by  the  waves  where  you  sat 


226  Sixes  and  Sevens 

last  summer  and  made  Dennis  Carnahan  a  happy  man. 
Speak  up,  and  tell  the  truth.' 

"Norah  stuck  her  nose  against  me  vest. 

"  *I  despise  it,  Denny,'  she  says,  half  cryin'.  'Mother 
and  Uncle  Tim  went  to  see  the  shows,  but  I  came  down 
here  to  think  of  you.  I  couldn't  bear  the  lights  and  the 
crowd.  Are  you  forgivin'  me,  Denny,  for  the  words 
we  had.'*' 

""Twas  me  fault,'  says  I.  'I  came  here  for  the 
same  reason  meself.  Look  at  the  lights,  Norah,'  I 
says,  turning  my  back  to  the  sea  —  'ain't  they  pretty?' 

"'They  are,'  says  Norah,  with  her  eyes  shinin'; 
'and  do  ye  hear  the  bands  playin'.?  Oh,  Denny,  I 
think  I'd  like  to  see  it  all.' 

"'The  old  Coney  is  gone,  darlin','  I  says  to  her. 
'Everything  moves.  When  a  man's  glad  it's  not 
scenes  of  sadness  he  wants.  'Tis  a  greater  Coney 
we  have  here,  but  we  couldn't  see  it  till  we  got  in  the 
humour  for  it.  Next  Sunday,  Norah  darlin',  we'll 
see  the  new  place  from  end  to  end." 


XXI 

LAW  AND  ORDER 

I  FOUND  myself  in  Texas  recently,  revisiting  old 
places  and  vistas.  At  a  sheep  ranch  where  I  had  so- 
journed many  years  ago,  I  stopped  for  a  week.  And, 
as  all  visitors  do,  I  heartily  plunged  into  the  business 
at  hand,  which  happened  to  be  that  of  dipping  the 
sheep. 

Now,  this  process  is  so  different  from  ordinary 
human  baptism  that  it  deserves  a  word  of  itself.  A 
vast  iron  cauldron  with  half  the  fires  of  Avernus  be- 
neath it  is  partly  filled  with  water  that  soon  boils 
furiously.  Into  that  is  cast  concentrated  lye,  lime, 
and  sulphur,  which  is  allowed  to  stew  and  fume  until 
the  witches'  broth  is  strong  enough  to  scorch  the  third 
arm  of  Palladino  herself. 

Then  this  concentrated  brew  is  mixed  in  a  long, 
deep  vat  with  cubic  gallons  of  hot  water,  and  the  sheep 
are  caught  by  their  hind  legs  and  flung  into  the  com- 
pound. After  being  thoroughly  ducked  by  means 
of  a  forked  pole  in  the  hands  of  a  gentleman  detailed 
for  that  purpose,  they  are  allowed  to  clamber  up  an 
incline  into  a  corral  and  dry  or  die,  as  the  state  of  their 

227 


228  Sixes  and  Sevens  ] 

constitutions  may  decree.  If  you  ever  caught  an  able- 
bodied,  two-year-old  mutton  by  the  hind  legs  and  felt 
the  750  volts  of  kicking  that  he  can  send  through 
your  arm  seventeen  times  before  you  can  hurl  him 
into  the  vat,  you  will,  of  course,  hope  that  he  may  die 
instead  of  dry. 

But  this  is  merely  to  explain  why  Bud  Oakley  and 
I  gladly  stretched  ourselves  on  the  bank  of  the  nearby 
charco  after  the  dipping,  glad  for  the  welcome  inanition 
and  pure  contact  with  the  earth  after  our  muscle- 
racking  labours.  The  flock  was  a  small  one,  and  we 
finished  at  three  in  the  afternoon;  so  Bud  brought 
from  the  morral  on  his  saddle  horn,  coffee  and  a  coffee- 
pot and  a  big  hunk  of  bread  and  some  side  bacon. 
Mr.  Mills,  the  ranch  owner  and  my  old  friend,  rode 
away  to  the  ranch  with  his  force  of  Mexican  traba- 
j  adores. 

While  the  bacon  was  frizzling  nicely,  there  was  the 
sound  of  horses'  hoofs  behind  us.  Bud's  six-shooter 
lay  in  its  scabbard  ten  feet  away  from  his  hand. 
He  paid  not  the  slightest  heed  to  the  approaching 
horseman.  This  attitude  of  a  Texas  ranchman  was  so 
different  from  the  old-time  custom  that  I  marvelled. 
Instinctively  I  turned  to  inspect  the  possible  foe  that 
menaced  us  in  the  rear.  I  saw  a  horseman  dressed 
in  black,  who  might  have  been  a  lawyer  or  a  parson  or 
an  undertaker,  trotting  peaceably  along  the  road  by 
the  arroyo. 


Law  and  Order  229 

Bud  noticed  my  precautionary  movement  and  smiled 
sarcastically  and  sorrowfully. 

"You've  been  away  too  long,"  said  he.  "You 
don't  need  to  look  around  any  more  when  anybody 
gallops  up  behind  you  in  this  state,  unless  something 
hits  you  in  the  back;  and  even  then  it's  liable  to  be  only 
a  bunch  of  tracts  or  a  petition  to  sign  against  the  trusts. 
I  never  looked  at  that  hombre  that  rode  by;  but  I'll 
bet  a  quart  of  sheep  dip  that  he's  some  double-dyed 
son  of  a  popgun  out  rounding  up  prohibition  votes. " 

"Times  have  changed,  Bud,"  said  I,  oracularly. 
"Law  and  order  is  the  rule  now  in  the  South  and  the 
Southwest. " 

I  caught  a  cold  gleam  from  Bud's  pale  blue  eyes. 

"Not  that  I "  I  began,  hastily. 

"Of  course  you  don't, "  said  Bud  warmly.  "You 
know  better.  You've  lived  here  before.  Law  and 
order,  you  say?  Twenty  years  ago  we  had  'em  here. 
We  only  had  two  or  three  laws,  such  as  against  murder 
before  witnesses,  and  being  caught  stealing  horses, 
and  voting  the  Republican  ticket.  But  how  is  it  now? 
All  we  get  is  orders;  and  the  laws  go  out  of  the  state. 
Them  legislators  set  up  there  at  Austin  and  don't 
do  nothing  but  make  laws  against  kerosene  oil  and 
schoolbooks  being  brought  into  the  state.  I  reckon 
they  was  afraid  some  man  would  go  home  some  even- 
ing after  work  and  light  up  and  get  an  education  and 
go  to  work  and  make  laws  to  repeal  aforesaid  laws. 


230  Sixes  and  Sevens 

Me,  I'm  for  the  old  days  when  law  and  order  meant 
what  they  said.  A  law  was  a  law,  and  a  order  was  a 
order." 

"But "I  began. 

"I  was  going  on,"  continued  Bud,  "while  this  coffee 
is  boiling,  to  describe  to  you  a  case  of  genuine  law  and 
order  that  I  knew  of  once  in  the  times  when  cases  was 
decided  in  the  chambers  of  a  six-shooter  instead  of  a 
supreme  court. 

"You've  heard  of  old  Ben  Kirkman,  the  cattle 
king-f*  His  ranch  run  from  the  Nueces  to  the  Rio 
Grande.  In  them  days,  as  you  know,  there  was  cattle 
barons  and  cattle  kings.  The  difference  was  this: 
when  a  cattleman  went  to  San  Antone  and  bought 
beer  for  the  newspaper  reporters  and  only  give  them 
the  number  of  cattle  he  actually  owned,  they  wrote 
him  up  for  a  baron.  When  he  bought  'em  champagne 
wine  and  added  in  the  amount  of  cattle  he  had  stole, 
they  called  him  a  king. 

"Luke  Summers  was  one  of  his  range  bosses.  And 
down  to  the  king's  ranch  comes  one  day  a  bunch  of 
these  Oriental  people  from  New  York  or  Kansas  City 
or  thereabouts.  Luke  was  detailed  with  a  squad  to 
ride  about  with  'em,  and  see  that  the  rattlesnakes  got 
fair  warning  when  they  was  coming,  and  drive  the 
deer  out  of  their  way.  Among  the  bunch  was  a  black- 
eyed  girl  that  wore  a  number  two  shoe.  That's  all 
I  noticed  about  her.     But  Luke  must  have  seen  more. 


Law  and  Order  231 

for  he  married  her  one  day  before  the  caballard  started 
back,  and  went  over  on  Canada  Verde  and  set  up  a 
ranch  of  his  own.  I'm  skipping  over  the  sentimental 
stuff  on  purpose,  because  I  never  saw  or  wanted  to  see 
any  of  it.  And  Luke  takes  me  along  with  him  because 
we  was  old  friends  and  I  handled  cattle  to  suit  him. 

"I'm  skipping  over  much  what  followed,  because 
I  never  saw  or  wanted  to  see  any  of  it  —  but  three 
years  afterward  there  was  a  boy  kid  stumbling  and 
blubbering  around  the  galleries  and  floors  of  Luke's 
ranch.  I  never  had  no  use  for  kids;  but  it  seems  they 
did.  And  I'm  skipping  over  much  what  followed  until 
one  day  out  to  the  ranch  drives  in  hacks  and  buck- 
boards  a  lot  of  Mrs.  Summers's  friends  from  the  East 
—  a  sister  or  so  and  two  or  three  men.  One  looked 
like  an  uncle  to  somebody;  and  one  looked  like  noth- 
ing; and  the  other  one  had  on  corkscrew  pants  and 
spoke  in  a  tone  of  voice.  I  never  liked  a  man  who 
spoke  in  a  tone  of  voice. 

"I'm  skipping  over  much  what  followed;  but  one 
afternoon  when  I  rides  up  to  the  ranch  house  to  get 
some  orders  about  a  drove  of  beeves  that  was  to  be 
shipped,  I  hears  something  like  a  popgun  go  off.  I 
waits  at  the  hitching  rack,  not  wishing  to  intrude  on 
private  affairs.  In  a  little  while  Luke  comes  out  and 
gives  some  orders  to  some  of  his  Mexican  hands,  and 
they  go  and  hitch  up  sundry  and  divers  vehicles;  and 
mighty  soon  out  comes  one  of  the  sisters  or  so  and  some 


232  Sixes  and  Sevens 

of  the  two  or  three  men.  But  two  of  the  two  or  three 
men  carries  between  'em  the  corkscrew  man  who  spoke 
in  a  tone  of  voice,  and  lays  him  iflat  down  in  one  of  the 
wagons.  And  they  all  might  have  been  seen  wending 
their  way  away. 

"'Bud,'  says  Luke  to  me,  'I  want  you  to  fix  up 
a  little  and  go  up  to  San  An  tone  with  me.' 

"'Let  me  get  on  my  Mexican  spurs,'  says  I,  'and 
I'm  your  company.' 

"One  of  the  sisters  or  so  seems  to  have  stayed  at 
the  ranch  with  Mrs.  Summers  and  the  kid.  We 
rides  to  Encinal  and  catches  the  International,  and 
hits  San  Antone  in  the  morning.  After  breakfast 
Luke  steers  me  straight  to  the  office  of  a  lawyer.  They 
go  in  a  room  and  talk  and  then  come  out. 

'"Oh,  there  won't  be  any  trouble,  Mr.  Summers,' 
says  the  lawyer.  'I'll  acquaint  Judge  Simmons  with 
the  facts  to-day;  and  the  matter  will  be  put  through 
as  promptly  as  possible.  Law  and  order  reigns  in 
this  state  as  swift  and  sure  as  any  in  the  country.' 

"'I'll  wait  for  the  decree  if  it  won't  take  over  half 
an  hour,'  says  Luke. 

"'Tut,  tut,'  says  the  lawyer  man.  'Law  must  take 
its  course.  Come  back  day  after  to-morrow  at  half- 
past  nine.' 

"At  that  time  me  and  Luke  shows  up,  and  the  law- 
yer hands  him  a  folded  document.  And  Luke  writes 
him  out  a  check. 


Law  and  Order  233 

"On  the  sidewalk  Luke  holds  up  the  paper  to  me 
and  puts  a  finger  the  size  of  a  kitchen  door  latch  on  it 
and  says: 

"'Decree  of  ab-so-lute  divorce  with  cus-to-dy  of 
the  child.' 

"'Skipping  over  much  what  has  happened  of  which 
I  know  nothing,'  says  I,  'it  looks  to  me  like  a  split. 
Couldn't  the  lawyer  man  have  made  it  a  strike  for 
you?' 

"'Bud,'  says  he,  in  a  pained  style,  'that  child  is  the 
one  thing  I  have  to  live  for.  She  may  go;  but  the  boy 
is  mine! — think  of  it  —  I  have  cus-to-dy  of  the  child.' 

"'All  right,'  says  I.  'If  it's  the  law,  let's  abide  by 
it.  But  I  think,'  says  I,  'that  Judge  Simmons  might 
have  used  exemplary  clemency,  or  whatever  is  the 
legal  term,  in  our  case.' 

"You  see,  I  wasn't  inveigled  much  into  the  desir- 
ableness of  having  infants  around  a  ranch,  except  the 
kind  that  feed  themselves  and  sell  for  so  much  on  the 
hoof  when  they  grow  up.  But  Luke  was  struck  with 
that  sort  of  parental  foolishness  that  I  never  could  un- 
derstand. All  the  way  riding  from  the  station  back 
to  the  ranch,  he  kept  pulling  that  decree  out  of  his 
pocket  and  laying  his  finger  on  the  back  of  it  and  read- 
ing off  to  me  the  sum  and  substance  of  it.  'Cus-to-dy 
of  the  child.  Bud,'  says  he.  'Don't  forget  it  —  cus- 
to-dy  of  the  child.' 

"But  when  we  hits  the  ranch  we  finds  our  decree 


234  Sixes  and  Sevens 

of  court  obviated,  nolle  grossed,  and  remanded  for 
trial.  Mrs.  Summers  and  the  kid  was  gone.  They 
tell  us  that  an  hour  after  me  and  Luke  had  started  for 
San  Antone  she  had  a  team  hitched  and  lit  out  for  the 
nearest  station  with  her  trunks  and  the  youngster. 

"Luke  takes  out  his  decree  once  more  and  reads 
off  its  emoluments. 

"'It  ain't  possible,  Bud,'  says  he,  'for  this  to  be. 
It's  contrary  to  law  and  order.  It's  wrote  as  plain 
as  day   here  —  "Cus-to-dy  of  the  child.'" 

"'There  is  what  you  might  call  a  human  leaning,' 
says  I,  'toward  smashing  'em  both  —  not  to  mention 
the  child.' 

"'Judge  Simmons,'  goes  on  Luke,  'is  a  incorporated 
officer  of  the  law.  She  can't  take  the  boy  away.  He 
belongs  to  me  by  statutes  passed  and  approved  by 
the  state  of  Texas.' 

"'And  he's  removed  from  the  jurisdiction  of  mun- 
dane mandamuses,'  says  I,  'by  the  unearthly  statutes 
of  female  partiality.     Let  us  praise  the  Lord  and  be 

thankful  for  whatever  small  mercies '  I  begins; 

but  I  see  Luke  don't  listen  to  me.  Tired  as  he  was,  he 
calls  for  a  fresh  horse  and  starts  back  again  for  the 
station. 

"He  come  back  two  weeks  afterward,  not  saying 
much. 

"'We  can't  get  the  trail,'  says  he;  'but  we've  done 
all  the  telegraphing  that  the  wires'll  stand,  and  we've 


Law  and  Order  235 

got  these  city  rangers  they  call  detectives  on  the 
lookout.  In  the  meantime,  Bud,'  says  he,  'we'll 
round  up  them  cows  on  Brush  Creek,  and  wait  for  the 
law  to  take  its  course.'  " 

And  after  that  we  never  alluded  to  allusions,  as  you 
might  say. 

"Skipping  over  much  what  happened  in  the  next 
twelve  years,  Luke  was  made  sheriff  of  Mojada  County. 
He  made  me  his  office  deputy.  Now,  don't  get  in 
your  mind  no  wrong  apparitions  of  a  office  deputy 
doing  sums  in  a  book  or  mashing  letters  in  a  cider 
press.  In  them  days  his  job  was  to  watch  the  back 
windows  so  nobody  didn't  plug  the  sheriff  in  the  rear 
while  he  was  adding  up  mileage  at  his  desk  in  front. 
And  in  them  days  I  had  qualifications  for  the  job. 
And  there  was  law  and  order  in  Mojada  County,  and 
schoolbooks,  and  all  the  whiskey  you  wanted,  and  the 
Government  built  its  own  battleships  instead  of  col- 
lecting nickels  from  the  school  children  to  do  it  with. 
And,  as  I  say,  there  was  law  and  order  instead  of  enact- 
ments and  restrictions  such  as  disfigure  our  umpire 
state  to-day.  We  had  our  office  at  Bildad,  the  county 
seat,  from  which  we  emerged  forth  on  necessary  oc- 
casions to  soothe  whatever  fracases  and  unrest  that 
might  occur  in  our  jurisdiction. 

"Skipping  over  much  what  happened  while  me  and 
Luke  was  sheriff,  I  want  to  give  you  an  idea  of  how  the 
law  was  respected  in  them  days.     Luke  was  what 


236  Sixes  and  Sevens 

you  would  call  one  of  the  most  conscious  men  in  the 
world.  He  never  knew  much  book  law,  but  he  had  the 
inner  emoluments  of  justice  and  mercy  inculcated  into 
his  system.  If  a  respectable  citizen  shot  a  Mexican 
or  held  up  a  train  and  cleaned  out  the  safe  in  the  ex- 
press car,  and  Luke  ever  got  hold  of  him,  he'd  give  the 
guilty  party  such  a  reprimand  and  a  cussin'  out  that 
he'd  probable  never  do  it  again.  But  once  let  some- 
body steal  a  horse  (unless  it  was  a  Spanish  pony), 
or  cut  a  wire  fence,  or  otherwise  impair  the  peace  and 
indignity  of  Mojada  County,  Luke  and  me  would 
be  on  'em  with  habeas  corpuses  and  smokeless 
powder  and  all  the  modern  inventions  of  equity  and 
etiquette. 

"We  certainly  had  our  county  on  a  basis  of  lawful- 
ness. I've  known  persons  of  Eastern  classification 
with  little  spotted  caps  and  buttoned-up  shoes  to  get 
oflF  the  train  at  Bildad  and  eat  sandwiches  at  the 
railroad  station  without  being  shot  at  or  even  roped 
and  drug  about  by  the  citizens  of  the  town. 

"Luke  had  his  own  ideas  of  legality  and  justice.  He 
was  kind  of  training  me  to  succeed  him  when  he  went 
out  of  ofiice.  He  was  always  looking  ahead  to  the  time 
when  he'd  quit  sheriffing.  What  he  wanted  to  do  was 
to  build  a  yellow  house  with  lattice- work  under  the 
porch  and  have  hens  scratching  in  the  yard.  The 
one  main  thing  in  his  mind  seemed  to  be  the  yard. 

"'Bud,'  he  says  to  me,  'by   instinct  and  sentiment 


Laio  and  Order  237 

I'm  a  contractor.  I  want  to  be  a  contractor.  That's 
what  I'll  be  when  I  get  out  of  office.' 

"'What  kind  of  a  contractor?'  says  I.  'It  sounds 
like  a  kind  of  a  business  to  me.  You  ain't  going  to 
haul  cement  or  establish  branches  or  work  on  a  rail- 
road, are  you?' 

"*You  don't  understand,'  says  Luke.  'I'm  tired  of 
space  and  horizons  and  territory  and  distances  and 
things  like  that.  What  I  want  is  reasonable  con- 
traction. I  want  a  yard  with  a  fence  around  it  that 
you  can  go  out  and  set  on  after  supper  and  listen  to 
whip-poor-wills,'  says  Luke. 

"That's  the  kind  of  a  man  he  was.  He  was  home-like, 
although  he'd  had  bad  luck  in  such  investments.  But 
he  never  talked  about  them  times  on  the  ranch.  It 
seemed  like  he'd  forgotten  about  it.  I  wondered  how, 
with  his  ideas  of  yards  and  chickens  and  notions  of 
lattice-work,  he'd  seemed  to  have  got  out  of  his  mind 
that  kid  of  his  that  had  been  taken  away  from  him, 
unlawful,  in  spite  of  his  decree  of  court.  But  he  wasn't 
a  man  you  could  ask  about  such  things  as  he  didn't 
refer  to  in  his  own  conversation. 

"I  reckon  he'd  put  all  his  emotions  and  ideas  into  be- 
ing sheriff.  I've  read  in  books  about  men  that  was 
disappointed  in  these  poetic  and  fine-haired  and  high- 
collared  affairs  with  ladies  renouncing  truck  of  that 
kind  and  wrapping  themselves  up  into  some  occupation 
like  painting  pictures,  or  herding  sheep,  or  science, 


238  Sixes  and  Sevens 

or  teaching  school  —  something  to  make  'em  forget. 
Well,  I  guess  that  was  the  way  with  Luke.  But, 
as  he  couldn't  paint  pictures,  he  took  it  out  in  round- 
ing up  horse  thieves  and  in  making  Mojada  County 
a  safe  place  to  sleep  in  if  you  was  well  armed  and  not 
afraid  of  requisitions  or  tarantulas, 

"One  day  there  passes  through  Bildad  a  bunch  of 
these  money  investors  from  the  East,  and  they  stopped 
oflP  there,  Bildad  being  the  dinner  station  on  the  I.  & 
G.  N.  They  was  just  coming  back  from  Mexico  look- 
ing after  mines  and  such.  There  was  five  of  'em  — 
four  solid  parties,  with  gold  watch  chains,  that  would 
grade  up  over  two  hundred  pounds  on  the  hoof,  and 
one  kid  about  seventeen  or  eighteen. 

"This  youngster  had  on  one  of  them  cowboy  suits 
such  as  tenderfoots  bring  West  with  'em;  and  you 
could  see  he  was  aching  to  wing  a  couple  of  Indians 
or  bag  a  grizzly  or  two  with  the  little  pearl-handled 
gun  he  had  buckled  around  his  waist. 

"I  walked  doT^Ti  to  the  depot  to  keep  an  eye  on  the 
outfit  and  see  that  they  didn't  locate  any  land  or 
scare  the  cow  ponies  hitched  in  front  of  Murchison's 
store  or  act  otherwise  unseemly.  Luke  was  away 
after  a  gang  of  cattle  thieves  down  on  the  Frio,  and  I 
always  looked  after  the  law  and  order  when  he  wasn't 
there, 

"After  dinner  this  boy  comes  out  of  the  dining-room 
while  the  train  was  waiting,  and  prances  up  and  down 


LaiD  and  Order  239 

the  platform  ready  to  shoot  all  antelope,  lions,  or 
private  citizens  that  might  endeavour  to  molest 
or  come  too  near  him.  He  was  a  good-looking  kid; 
only  he  was  like  all  them  tenderfoots  —  he  didn't 
know   a   law-and-order  town  when  he  saw  it. 

^'^y  and  by  along  comes  Pedro  Johnson,  the  pro- 
prietor of  the  Crystal  Palace  chili-con-carne  stand  in 
Bildad.  Pedro  was  a  man  who  liked  to  amuse  him- 
self; so  he  kind  of  herd  rides  this  youngster,  laughing 
at  him,  tickled  to  death.  I  was  too  far  away  to  hear, 
but  the  kid  seems  to  mention  some  remarks  to  Pedro, 
and  Pedro  goes  up  and  slaps  him  about  nine  feet 
away,  and  laughs  harder  than  ever.  And  then  the 
boy  gets  up  quicker  than  he  fell  and  jerks  out  his  little 
pearl-handle,  and  —  bing !  bing !  bing !  Pedro  gets 
it  three  times  in  special  and  treasured  portions  of  his 
carcass.  I  saw  the  dust  fly  off  his  clothes  every  time 
the  bullets  hit.  Sometimes  them  little  thirty-twos 
cause  worry  at  close  range. 

"The  engine  bell  was  ringing,  and  the  train  starting 
off  slow.  I  goes  up  to  the  kid  and  places  him  under 
arrest,  and  takes  away  his  gun.  But  the  first  thing 
I  knew  that  cahallard  of  capitalists  makes  a  break  for 
the  train.  One  of  'em  hesitates  in  front  of  me  for  a 
second,  and  kind  of  smiles  and  shoves  his  hand  up 
against  my  chin,  and  I  sort  of  laid  down  on  the  plat- 
form and  took  a  nap.  I  never  was  afraid  of  guns; 
but  I  don't  waut  any  person  except  a  barber  to  take 


240  Sixes  and  Sevens 

liberties  like  that  with  my  face  again.  When  I  woke 
up,  the  whole  outfit  —  train,  boy,  and  all  —  was  gone. 
I  asked  about  Pedro,  and  they  told  me  the  doctor  said 
he  would  recover  provided  his  wounds  didn't  turn 
out  to  be  fatal. 

"When  Luke  got  back  three  days  later,  and  I  told 
him  about  it,  he  was  mad  all  over. 

"'Why'n't  you  telegraph  to  San  Antone,'  he  asks, 
'and  have  the  bunch  arrested  there.'*' 

"'Oh,  well,'  says  I,  'I  always  did  admire  telegraphy; 
but  astronomy  was  what  I  had  took  up  just  then.' 
That  capitalist  sure  knew  how  to  gesticulate  with  his 
hands. 

"  Luke  got  madder  and  madder.  He  investigates 
and  finds  in  the  depot  a  card  one  of  the  men  had 
dropped  that  gives  the  address  of  some  hombre  called 
Scudder  in  New  York  City. 

"'Bud,'  says  Luke,  'I'm  going  after  that  bunch. 
I'm  going  there  and  get  the  man  or  boy,  as  you  say 
he  was,  and  bring  him  back.  I'm  sheriff  of  Mojada 
County,  and  I  shall  keep  law  and  order  in  its  precincts 
while  I'm  able  to  draw  a  gun.  And  I  want  you  to  go 
with  me.  No  Eastern  Yankee  can  shoot  up  a  respect- 
able and  well-known  citizen  of  Bildad,  'specially 
with  a  thirty-two  calibre,  and  escape  the  law.  Pedro 
Johnson,'  says  Luke,  'is  one  of  our  most  prominent 
citizens  and  business  men.  I'll  appoint  Sam  Bell 
acting    sheriff    with    penitentiary   powers   while    I'm 


Law  and  Order  241 

away,  and  you  and  me  will  take  the  six  forty-five 
northbound  to-morrow  evening  and  follow  up  this 
trail.' 

"'I'm  your  company,'  says  I.  'I  never  see  this 
New  York,  but  I'd  like  to.  But,  Luke,'  says  I,  'don't 
you  have  to  have  a  dispensation  or  a  habeas  corpus  or 
something  from  the  state,  when  you  reach  out  that 
far  for  rich  men  and  malefactors?' 

"  'Did  I  have  a  requisition,'  says  Luke,  'when  I  went 
over  into  the  Brazos  bottoms  and  brought  back  Bill 
Grimes  and  two  more  for  holding  up  the  International.? 
Did  me  and  you  have  a  search  warrant  or  a  posse 
comitatus  when  we  rounded  up  them  six  Mexican  cow 
thieves  down  in  Hidalgo.''  It's  my  business  to  keep 
order  in  Mojada  County.' 

'"And  it's  my  business  as  office  deputy,' says  I,  *to 
see  that  business  is  carried  on  according  to  law. 
Between  us  both  we  ought  to  keep  things  pretty  well 
cleaned  up.' 

"So,  the  next  day,  Luke  packs  a  blanket  and  some 
collars  and  his  mileage  book  in  a  haversack,  and  him 
and  me  hits  the  breeze  for  New  York.  It  was  a  power- 
ful long  ride.  The  seats  in  the  cars  was  too  short  for 
six-footers  like  us  to  sleep  comfortable  on;  and  the  con- 
ductor had  to  keep  us  from  getting  off  at  every  town 
that  had  five-story  houses  in  it.  But  we  got  there 
finally;  and  we  seemed  to  see  right  away  that  he  was 
right  about  it. 


^4^  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"'Luke,'  says  I,  'as  office  deputy  and  from  a  law 
standpoint,  it  don't  look  to  me  like  this  place  is  properly 
and  legally  in  the  jurisdiction  of  Mojada  County, 
Texas.' 

'"From  the  standpoint  of  order,'  says  he,  'it's 
amenable  to  answer  for  its  sins  to  the  properly  ap- 
pointed authorities  from  Bildad  to  Jerusalem.' 

"'Amen,'  says  I.  'But  let's  turn  our  trick  sudden, 
and  ride.     I  don't  like  the  looks  of  this  place.' 

'"Think  of  Pedro  Johnson,'  says  Luke,  'a  friend  of 
mine  and  yours  shot  down  by  one  of  these  gilded 
abolitionists  at  his  very  door!' 

"'It  was  at  the  door  of  the  freight  depot,'  says  I. 
'But  the  law  will  not  be  balked  at  a  quibble  like  that.' 

"We  put  up  at  one  of  them  big  hotels  on  Broadway. 
The  next  morning  I  goes  down  about  two  miles  of 
stairsteps  to  the  bottom  and  hunts  for  Luke.  It 
ain't  no  use.  It  looks  like  San  Jacinto  day  in  San 
Antone.  There's  a  thousand  folks  milling  around  in 
a  kind  of  a  roofed-over  plaza  with  marble  pavements 
and  trees  growing  right  out  of  'em,  and  I  see  no  more 
chance  of  finding  Luke  than  if  we  was  hunting  each 
other  in  the  big  pear  flat  down  below  Old  Fort  Ewell. 
But  soon  Luke  and  me  runs  together  in  one  of  the  turns 
of  them  marble  alleys. 

"'It  ain't  no  use,  Bud,'  says  he.  'I  can't  find  no 
place  to  eat  at.  I've  been  looking  for  restaurant 
signs  and  smelling  for  ham  all  over  the  camp.     But 


Law  and  Order  243 

I'm  used  to  going  hungry  when  I  have  to.  Now,' 
says  he,  'I'm  going  out  and  get  a  hack  and  ride  down 
to  the  address  on  this  Scudder  card.  You  stay  here 
and  try  to  hustle  some  grub.  But  I  doubt  if  you'll 
find  it.  I  wish  we'd  brought  along  some  cornmeal 
and  bacon  and  beans.  I'll  be  back  when  I  see  this 
Scudder,  if  the  trail  ain't  wiped  out.' 

"So  I  starts  foraging  for  breakfast.  For  the  honour 
of  old  Mojada  County  I  didn't  want  to  seem  green 
to  them  abolitionists,  so  every  time  I  turned  a  corner 
in  them  marble  halls  I  went  up  to  the  first  desk  or 
counter  I  see  and  looks  around  for  grub.  If  I  didn't 
see  what  I  wanted  I  asked  for  something  else.  In 
about  half  an  hour  I  had  a  dozen  cigars,  five  story 
magazines,  and  seven  or  eight  railroad  time-tables  in 
my  pockets,  and  never  a  smell  of  coffee  or  bacon  to 
point  out  the  trail. 

"Once  a  lady  sitting  at  a  table  and  playing  a  game 
kind  of  like  pushpin  told  me  to  go  into  a  closet  that 
she  called  Number  3.  I  went  in  and  shut  the  door, 
and  the  blamed  thing  lit  itself  up.  I  set  down  on  a 
stool  before  a  shelf  and  waited.  Thinks  I,  'This  is 
a  private  dining-room.'  But  no  waiter  never  came. 
When  I  got  to  sweating  good  and  hard,  I  goes  out 
again. 

"'Did  you  get  what  you  wanted.?'  says  she. 

"'No,  ma'am,' says  I.     'Not  a  bite.' 

"'Then  there's  no  charge,'  says  she. 


244  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"'Thanky,  ma'am,'  says  I,  and  I  takes  up  the  trail 
again. 

"By  and  by  I  thinks  I'll  shed  etiquette;  and  I  picks 
up  one  of  them  boys  with  blue  clothes  and  yellow 
buttons  in  front,  and  he  leads  me  to  what  he  calls  the 
caffay  breakfast  room.  And  the  first  thing  I  lays 
my  eyes  on  when  I  go  in  is  that  boy  that  had  shot 
Pedro  Johnson.  He  was  setting  all  alone  at  a  little 
table,  hitting  a  egg  with  a  spoon  like  he  was  afraid  he'd 
break  it. 

"I  takes  the  chair  across  the  table  from  him;  and 
he  looks  insulted  and  makes  a  move  like  he  was  going 
to  get  up. 

"'Keep  still,  son,'  says  I.  'You're  apprehended, 
arrested,  and  in  charge  of  the  Texas  authorities.  Go 
on  and  hammer  that  egg  some  more  if  it's  the  inside 
of  it  you  want.  Now,  what  did  you  shoot  Mr.  John- 
son, of  Bildad,  for?' 

"  'And  may  I  ask  who  you  are?'  says  he. 

"'You  may,'  says  I.     'Go  ahead.' 

"'I  suppose  you're  on,'  says  this  kid,  without 
batting  his  eyes.  'But  what  are  you  eating.?  Here, 
waiter!'  he  calls  out,  raising  his  finger.  'Take  this 
gentleman's  order.' 

"'A  beefsteak,'  says  I,  'and  some  fried  eggs  and  a 
can  of  peaches  and  a  quart  of  coffee  will  about  suffice.' 

"We  talk  awhile  about  the  sundries  of  life  and  then 
he  says: 


Law  and  Order  245 

"'What  are  you  going  to  do  about  that  shooting?  I 
had  a  right  to  shoot  that  man,'  says  he.  *He  called 
me  names  that  I  couldn't  overlook,  and  then  he  struck 
me.     He  carried  a  gun,  too.     What  else  could  I  do?' 

"'We'll  have  to  take  you  back  to  Texas,'  says  I. 

"'I'd  like  to  go  back,'  says  the  boy,  with  a  kind  of  a 
grin  —  'if  it  wasn't  on  an  occasion  of  this  kind.  It's 
the  life  I  like.  I've  always  wanted  to  ride  and  shoot 
and  live  in  the  open  air  ever  since  I  can  remember.' 

"  'Who  was  this  gang  of  stout  parties  you  took  this 
trip  with?'  I  asks. 

"'My  stepfather,'  says  he,  'and  some  business  part- 
ners of  his  in  some  Mexican  mining  and  land  schemes.' 

"'I  saw  you  shoot  Pedro  Johnson,'  says  I,  'and  I 
took  that  little  popgun  away  from  you  that  you  did 
it  with.  And  when  I  did  so  I  noticed  three  or  four 
little  scars  in  a  row  over  your  right  eyebrow.  You've 
been  in  rookus  before,  haven't  you?' 

"  'I've  had  these  scars  ever  since  I  can  remember,' 
says  he.     'I  don't  know  how  they  came  there.' 

"'Was  you  ever  in  Texas  before?'  says  I. 

"  'Not  that  I  remember  of,'  says  he.  'But  I  thought 
I  had  when  we  struck  the  prairie  country.  But  I 
guess  I  hadn't.' 

"  'Have  you  got  a  mother?'  I  asks. 

"'She  died  five  years  ago,'  says  he. 

"Skipping  over  the  most  of  what  followed  —  when 
Luke  came  back  I  turned  the  kid  over  to  him.     He 


246  Sixes  and  Sevens 

had  seen  Scudder  and  told  him  what  he  wanted; 
and  it  seems  that  Scudder  got  active  with  one  of  these 
telephones  as  soon  as  he  left.  For  in  about  an  hour 
afterward  there  comes  to  our  hotel  some  of  these 
city  rangers  in  everyday  clothes  that  they  call  detec- 
tives, and  marches  the  whole  outfit  of  us  to  what  they 
call  a  magistrate's  court.  They  accuse  Luke  of  at- 
tempted kidnapping,  and  ask  him  what  he  has  to  say. 

"'This  snipe,'  says  Luke  to  the  judge,  'shot  and 
wilfully  punctured  with  malice  and  forethought  one 
of  the  most  respected  and  prominent  citizens  of  the 
town  of  Bildad,  Texas,  Your  Honor.  And  in  so  doing 
laid  himself  liable  to  the  penitence  of  law  and  order. 
And  I  hereby  make  claim  and  demand  restitution  of 
the  State  of  New  York  City  for  the  said  alleged  crimi- 
nal; and  I  know  he  done  it.' 

"*Have  you  the  usual  and  necessary  requisition 
papers  from  the  governor  of  your  state?'  asks  the 
judge. 

"'My  usual  papers,'  says  Luke,  'was  taken  away 
from  me  at  the  hotel  by  these  gentlemen  who  represent 
law  and  order  in  your  city.  They  was  two  Colt's 
.45's  that  I've  packed  for  nine  years;  and  if  I 
don't  get  'em  back,  there'll  be  more  trouble.  You  can 
ask  anybody  in  Mojada  County  about  Luke  Sum- 
mers. I  don't  usually  need  any  other  kind  of  papers 
for  what  I  do.' 

"I  see  the  judge  looks  mad,  so  I  steps  up  and  says; 


Law  and  Order  247 

"'Your  Honor,  the  aforesaid  defendant,  Mr.  Luke 
Summers,  sheriff  of  Mojada  County,  Texas,  is  as 
fine  a  man  as  ever  threw  a  rope  or  upheld  the  statutes 
and  codicils  of  the  greatest  state  in  the  Union.  But 
he ' 

"The  judge  hits  his  table  with  a  wooden  hammer  and 
asks  who  I  am. 

"  *Bud  Oakley,'  says  I.  'Office  deputy  of  the  sheriff's 
office  of  Mojada  County,  Texas.  Representing,'  says 
I,  'the  Law.  Luke  Summers,'  I  goes  on,  'represents 
Order.  And  if  Your  Honor  will  give  me  about  ten 
minutes  in  private  talk,  I'll  explain  the  whole  thing 
to  you,  and  show  you  the  equitable  and  legal  requisi- 
tion papers  which  I  carry  in  my  pocket.' 

"The  judge  kind  of  half  smiles  and  says  he  will 
talk  with  me  in  his  private  room.  In  there  I  put  the 
whole  thing  up  to  him  in  such  language  as  I  had,  and 
when  v/e  gees  outside,  he  announces  the  verdict  that 
the  young  man  is  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the 
Texas  authorities;  and  calls  the  next  case. 

"Skipping  over  much  of  what  happened  on  the  way 
back,  I'll  tell  you  how  the  thing  wound  up  in  Bildad. 

"When  we  got  the  prisoner  in  the  sheriff's  office,  I 
says  to  Luke: 

"  'You  remember  that  kid  of  yours  —  that  two-year 
old  that  they  stole  away  from  you  when  the  bust-up 
come?' 

"Luke  looks  black  and  angry.     He'd  never  let  any- 


248  Sixes  and  Sevens 

body  talk  to  him  about  that  business,  and  he  never 
mentioned  it  himself. 

'"Toe  the  mark,'  says  I,  *Do  you  remember  when 
he  was  toddling  around  on  the  porch  and  fell  down  on 
a  pair  of  Mexican  spurs  and  cut  four  little  holes  over 
his  right  eye?  Look  at  the  prisoner,'  says  I,  'look  at 
his  nose  and  the  shape  of  his  head  and  —  why,  you  old 
fool,  don't  you  know  your  own  son?  —  I  knew  him,' 
says  I,  'when  he  perforated  Mr.  Johnson  at  the 
depot.' 

"Luke  comes  over  to  me  shaking  all  over.  I  never 
saw  him  lose  his  nerve  before. 

"  'Bud,'  says  he,  'I've  never  had  that  boy  out  of  my 
mind  one  day  or  one  night  since  he  was  took  away. 
But  I  never  let  on.  But  can  we  hold  him?  —  Can  we 
make  him  stay  ? —  I'll  make  the  best  man  of  him  that 
ever  put  his  foot  in  a  stirrup.  Wait  a  minute,'  says 
he,  all  excited  and  out  of  his  mind  —  'I've  got  some- 
thing here  in  my  desk  —  I  reckon  it'll  hold  legal  yet  — 
I've  looked  at  it  a  thousand  times  — "  Cus-to-dy  of 
the  child,"  says  Luke  —  "Cus-to-dy  of  the  child. "  We 
can  hold  him  on  that,  can't  we?  Le'me  see  if  I  can 
find  that  decree.' 

"Luke  begins  to  tear  his  desk  to  pieces. 

"'Hold  on,'  says  I.  'You  are  Order  and  I'm 
Law.  You  needn't  look  for  that  paper,  Luke.  It 
ain't  a  decree  any  more.  It's  requisition  papers.  It's 
on  file  in  that  Magistrate's  office  in  New  York.     I  took 


Law  and  Order  249 

it  along  when  we  went,  because  I  was  office  deputy 
and  knew  the  law.' 

"I've  got  him  back,'  says  Luke.  'He's  mine  again. 
I  never  thought ' 

"'Wait  a  minute,'  says  I.  'We've  got  to  have  law 
and  order.  You  and  me  have  got  to  preserve  'era 
both  in  Mojada  County  according  to  our  oath  and 
conscience.  The  kid  shot  Pedro  Johnson,  one  of 
Bildad's  most  prominent  and ' 

"'Oh,  hell!'  says  Luke.  'That  don't  amount  to 
anythmg.     That  fellow  was  half  Mexican,  anyhow.'" 


XXII 

TRANSFORMATION   OF  MARTIN  BURNEY 

In  behalf  of  Sir  Walter's  soothing  plant  let  us 
look  into  the  case  of  Martin  Burney. 

They  were  constructing  the  Speedway  along  the 
west  bank  of  the  Harlem  River.  The  grub-boat  of 
Dennis  Corrigan,  sub-contractor,  was  moored  to  a  tree 
on  the  bank.  Twenty-two  men  belonging  to  the 
little  green  island  toiled  there  at  the  sinew-cracking 
labour.  One  among  them,  who  wrought  in  the  kitchen 
of  the  grub-boat  was  of  the  race  of  the  Goths.  Over 
them  all  stood  the  exorbitant  Corrigan,  harrying  them 
like  the  captain  of  a  galley  crew.  He  paid  them  so 
little  that  most  of  the  gang,  work  as  they  might,  earned 
little  more  than  food  and  tobacco;  many  of  them  were 
in  debt  to  him.  Corrigan  boarded  them  all  in  the 
grub-boat,  and  gave  them  good  grub,  for  he  got  it 
back  in  work. 

Martin  Burney  was  furthest  behind  of  all.  He  was 
a  little  man,  all  muscles  and  hands  and  feet,  with  a 
gray-red,  stubbly  beard.  He  was  too  light  for  the 
work,  which  would  have  glutted  the  capacity  of  a 
steam  shovel. 

250 


Transformation  of  Martin  Burney    251 

The  work  was  hard.  Besides  that,  the  banks  of  the 
river  were  humming  with  mosquitoes.  As  a  child  in 
a  dark  room  fixes  his  regard  on  the  pale  light  of  a  com- 
forting window,  these  toilers  watched  the  sun  that 
brought  around  the  one  hour  of  the  day  that  tasted 
less  bitter.  After  the  sundown  supper  they  would 
huddle  together  on  the  river  bank,  and  send  the  mos- 
quitoes whining  and  eddying  back  from  the  malignant 
puffs  of  twenty -three  reeking  pipes.  Thus  socially 
banded  against  the  foe,  they  wrenched  out  of  the  hour 
a  few  well-smoked  drops  from  the  cup  of  joy. 

Each  week  Burney  grew  deeper  in  debt.  Corrigan 
kept  a  small  stock  of  goods  on  the  boat,  which  he  sold 
to  the  men  at  prices  that  brought  him  no  loss.  Burney 
was  a  good  customer  at  the  tobacco  counter.  One 
sack  when  he  went  to  work  in  the  morning  and  one 
when  he  came  in  at  night,  so  much  was  his  account 
swelled  daily.  Burney  was  something  of  a  smoker. 
Yet  it  was  not  true  that  he  ate  his  meals  with  a  pipe 
in  his  mouth,  which  had  been  said  of  him.  The  little 
man  was  not  discontented.  He  had  plenty  to  eat, 
plenty  of  tobacco,  and  a  tyrant  to  curse;  so  why  should 
not  he,  an  Irishman,  be  well  satisfied? 

One  morning  as  he  was  starting  with  the  others  for 
work  he  stopped  at  the  pine  counter  for  his  usual  sack 
of  tobacco. 

"There's  no  more  for  ye,"  said  Corrigan.  "Your 
account's  closed.     Ye  are  a  losing  investment.     No, 


252  Sixes  and  Sevens 

not  even  tobaccy,  my  son.  No  more  tobaccy  on 
account.  If  ye  want  to  work  on  and  eat,  do  so,  but 
the  smoke  of  ye  has  all  ascended.  'Tis  my  advice 
that  ye  hunt  a  new  job." 

"I  have  no  tobaccy  to  smoke  in  my  pipe  this  day, 
Mr.  Corrigan,"  said  Burney,  not  quite  understanding 
that  such  a  thing  could  happen  to  him. 

"Earn  it,"  said  Corrigan,  "and  then  buy  it." 

Burney  stayed  on.  He  knew  of  no  other  job.  At 
first  he  did  not  realize  that  tobacco  had  got  to  be  his 
father  and  mother,  his  confessor  and  sweetheart,  and 
wife  and  child. 

For  three  days  he  managed  to  fill  his  pipe  from  the 
other  men's  sacks,  and  then  they  shut  him  off,  one  and 
all.  They  told  him,  rough  but  friendly,  that  of  all 
things  in  the  world  tobacco  must  be  quickest  forth- 
coming to  a  fellow-man  desiring  it,  but  that  beyond 
the  immediate  temporary  need  requisition  upon  the 
store  of  a  comrade  is  pressed  with  great  danger  to 
friendship. 

Then  the  blackness  of  the  pit  arose  and  filled  the 
heart  of  Burney.  Sucking  the  corpse  of  his  deceased 
dudheen>  he  staggered  through  his  duties  with  his 
barrowful  of  stones  and  dirt,  feeling  for  the  first  time 
that  the  curse  of  Adam  was  upon  him.  Other  men 
bereft  of  a  pleasure  might  have  recourse  to  other 
delights,  but  Burney  had  only  two  comforts  in  life. 
One  was  his  pipe,  the  other  was  an  ecstatic  hope  that 


Transformation  of  Martin  Burney    253 

there  would  be  no  Speedways  to  build  on  the  other  side 
of  Jordan. 

At  meal  times  he  would  let  the  other  men  go  first 
into  the  grub-boat,  and  then  he  would  go  down  on  his 
hands  and  knees,  grovelling  fiercely  upon  the  ground 
where  they  had  been  sitting,  trying  to  find  some  stray 
crumbs  of  tobacco.  Once  he  sneaked  down  the  river 
bank  and  filled  his  pipe  with  dead  willow  leaves.  At 
the  first  whiff  of  the  smoke  he  spat  in  the  direction  of 
the  boat  and  put  the  finest  curse  he  knew  on  Corrigan 
— one  that  began  with  the  first  Corrigans  born  on 
earth  and  ended  with  the  Corrigans  that  shall  hear  the 
trumpet  of  Gabriel  blow.  He  began  to  hate  Corrigan 
with  all  his  shaking  nerves  and  soul.  Even  murder 
occurred  to  him  in  a  vague  sort  of  way.  Five  days  he 
went  without  the  taste  of  tobacco  —  he  who  had 
smoked  all  day  and  thought  the  night  misspent  in 
which  he  had  not  awakened  for  a  pipeful  or  two  under 
the  bedclothes. 

One  day  a  man  stopped  at  the  boat  to  say  that  there 
was  work  to  be  had  in  the  Bronx  Park,  where  a  large 
number  of  labourers  were  required  in  making  some 
improvements. 

After  dinner  Burney  walked  thirty  yards  down  the 
river  bank  away  from  the  maddening  smell  of  the 
others'  pipes.  He  sat  down  upon  a  stone.  He  was 
thinking  he  would  set  out  for  the  Bronx.  At  least  he 
could  earn  tobacco  there.     What  if  the  books  did  say 


254  Sixes  and  Sevens 

he  owed  Corrigan?  Any  man's  work  was  worth  his 
keep.  But  then  he  hated  to  go  without  getting  even 
with  the  hard-hearted  screw  who  had  put  his  pipe  out. 
Was  there  any  way  to  do  it  ? 

Softly  stepping  among  the  clods  came  Tony,  he  of 
the  race  of  Goths,  who  worked  in  the  kitchen.  He 
grinned  at  Burney's  elbow,  and  that  unhappy  man, 
full  of  race  animosity  and  holding  urbanity  in  con- 
tempt, growled  at  him:     "What  d'ye  want,  ye 

Dago?" 

Tony  also  contained  a  grievance  —  and  a  plot. 
He,  too,  was  a  Corrigan  hater,  and  had  been  primed  to 
see  it  in  others. 

"How  you  like-a  Mr.  Corrigan?"  he  asked.  "You 
think-a  him  a  nice-a  man?" 

"To  hell  with  'm,"  he  said.  "May  his  liver  turn 
to  water,  and  the  bones  of  him  crack  in  the  cold  of  his 
heart.  May  dog  fennel  grow  upon  his  ancestors' 
graves,  and  the  grandsons  of  his  children  be  born 
without  eyes.  May  whiskey  turn  to  clabber  in  his 
mouth,  and  every  time  he  sneezes  may  he  blister  the 
soles  of  his  feet.  And  the  smoke  of  his  pipe  —  may  it 
make  his  eyes  water,  and  the  drops  fall  on  the  grass 
that  his  cows  eat  and  poison  the  butter  that  he 
spreads  on  his  bread." 

Though  Tony  remained  a  stranger  to  the  beauties 
of  this  imagery,  he  gathered  from  it  the  conviction 
that  it  was  sufficiently  anti-Corrigan  in  its  tendency. 


Transformation  of  Martin  Burney    %55 

So,  with  the  confidence  of  a  fellow-conspirator,  he 
sat  by  Burney  upon  the  stone  and  unfolded  his  plot. 

It  was  very  simple  in  design.  Every  day  after 
dinner  it  was  Corrigan's  habit  to  sleep  for  an  hour  in 
his  bunk.  At  such  times  it  was  the  duty  of  the  cook 
and  his  helper,  Tony,  to  leave  the  boat  so  that  no  noise 
might  disturb  the  autocrat.  The  cook  always  spent 
this  hour  in  walking  exercise.  Tony's  plan  was  this: 
After  Corrigan  should  be  asleep  he  (Tony)  and  Burney 
would  cut  the  mooring  ropes  that  held  the  boat  to  the 
shore.  Tony  lacked  the  nerve  to  do  the  deed  alone. 
Then  the  awkward  boat  would  swing  out  into  a  swift 
current  and  surely  overturn  against  a  rock  there 
was  below. 

"Come  on  and  do  it,"  said  Burney.  "If  the  back 
of  ye  aches  from  the  lick  he  gave  ye  as  the  pit  of  me 
stomach  does  for  the  taste  of  a  bit  of  smoke,  we  can't 
cut  the  ropes  too  quick." 

"All  a-right,"  said  Tony.  "But  better  wait  'bout-a 
ten  minute  more.  Give-a  Corrigan  plenty  time  get 
good-a  sleep." 

They  waited,  sitting  upon  the  stone.  The  rest  of 
the  men  were  at  work  out  of  sight  around  a  bend  in  the 
road.  Everything  would  have  gone  well  —  except, 
perhaps,  with  Corrigan,  had  not  Tony  been  moved  to 
decorate  the  plot  with  its  conventional  accompaniment. 
He  was  of  dramatic  blood,  and  perhaps  he  intuitively 
divined  the  appendage  to  villainous  machinations  as 


9,56  Sixes  and  Sevens 

prescribed  by  the  stage.  He  pulled  from  his  shirt 
bosom  a  long,  black,  beautiful,  venomous  cigar,  and 
handed  it  to  Burney. 

"You  like-a  smoke  while  we  wait?"  he  asked. 

Burney  clutched  it  and  snapped  off  the  end  as  a 
terrier  bites  at  a  rat.  He  laid  it  to  his  lips  like  a  long- 
lost  sweetheart.  When  the  smoke  began  to  draw  he 
gave  a  long,  deep  sigh,  and  the  bristles  of  his  gray -red 
moustache  curled  down  over  the  cigar  like  the  talons 
of  an  eagle.  Slowly  the  red  faded  from  the  whites  of 
his  eyes.  He  fixed  his  gaze  dreamily  upon  the  hills 
across  the  river.     The  minutes  came  and  went. 

"  'Bout  time  to  go  now,"  said  Tony.  "That  damn-a 
Corrigan  he  be  in  the  reever  very  quick." 

Burney  started  out  of  his  trance  with  a  grunt.  He 
turned  his  head  and  gazed  with  a  surprised  and  pained 
severity  at  his  accomplice.  He  took  the  cigar  partly 
from  his  mouth,  but  sucked  it  back  again  immediately, 
chewed  it  lovingly  once  or  twice,  and  spoke,  in  virulent 
puffs,  from  the  corner  of  his  mouth: 

"What  is  it,  ye  yaller  hay  then.''  Would  ye  lay 
contrivances  against  the  enlightened  races  of  the 
earth,  ye  instigator  of  illegal  crimes.^  Would  ye  seek 
to  persuade  Martin  Burney  into  the  dirty  tricks  of  an 
indecent  Dago?  Would  ye  be  for  murderin'  your  bene- 
factor, the  good  man  that  gives  ye  food  and  work? 
Take  that,  ye  punkin-coloured  assassin!" 

The  torrent  of  Burney's  indignation  carried  with  it 


Transformation  of  Martin  Burney    257 

bodily  assault.  The  toe  of  his  shoe  sent  the  would-be 
cutter  of  ropes  tumbling  from  his  seat. 

Tony  arose  and  fled.  His  vendetta  he  again  rele- 
gated to  the  files  of  things  that  might  have  been. 
Beyond  the  boat  he  fled  and  away-away;  he  was  afraid 
to  remain. 

Burney,  with  expanded  chest,  watched  his  late  co- 
plotter  disappear.  Then  he,  too,  departed,  setting  his 
face  in  the  direction  of  the  Bronx. 

In  his  wake  was  a  rank  and  pernicious  trail  of 
noisome  smoke  that  brought  peace  to  his  heart  and 
drove  the  birds  from  the  roadside  into  the  deepest 
thickets. 


XXIII 

THE  CALIPH  AND  THE  CAD 

oURELY  there  is  no  pastime  more  diverting  than  that 
of  mingling,  incognito,  with  persons  of  wealth  and 
station.  Where  else  but  in  those  circles  can  one  see 
life  in  its  primitive,  crude  state  unhampered  by  the 
conventions  that  bind  the  dwellers  in  a  lower  sphere? 

There  was  a  certain  Caliph  of  Bagdad  who  was 
accustomed  to  go  down  among  the  poor  and  lowly  for 
the  solace  obtained  from  the  relation  of  their  tales  and 
histories.  Is  it  not  strange  that  the  humble  and 
poverty-stricken  have  not  availed  themselves  of  the 
pleasure  they  might  glean  by  donning  diamonds  and 
silks  and  playing  Caliph  among  the  haunts  of  the 
upper  world? 

There  was  one  who  saw  the  possibilities  of  thus 
turning  the  tables  on  Haroun  al  Raschid.  His  name 
was  Corny  Brannigan,  and  he  was  a  truck  driver  for  a 
Canal  Street  importing  firm.  And  if  you  read  further 
you  will  learn  how  he  turned  upper  Broadway  into 
Bagdad  and  learned  something  about  himself  that  he 
did  not  know  before. 

Many  people  would  have  called  Corny  a  snob  — 

258 


The  Caliph  and  the  Cad  259 

preferably  by  means  of  a  telephone.  His  chief  interest 
in  life,  his  chosen  amusement,  and  his  sole  diversion 
after  working  hours,  was  to  place  himself  in  juxta- 
position —  since  he  could  not  hope  to  mingle  —  with 
people  of  fashion  and  means. 

Every  evening  after  Corny  had  put  up  his  team  and 
dined  at  a  lunch-counter  that  made  immediateness  a 
specialty,  he  would  clothe  himself  in  evening  raiment 
as  correct  as  any  you  will  see  in  the  palm  rooms.  Then 
he  would  betake  himself  to  that  ravishing,  radiant 
roadway  devoted  to  Thespis,  Thais,  and  Bacchus. 

For  a  time  he  would  stroll  about  the  lobbies  of  the 
best  hotels,  his  soul  steeped  in  blissful  content.  Beau- 
tiful women,  cooing  like  doves,  but  feathered  like  birds 
of  Paradise,  flicked  him  with  their  robes  as  they  passed. 
Courtly  gentlemen  attended  them,  gallant  and  assidu- 
ous. And  Corny's  heart  within  him  swelled  like 
Sir  Lancelot's,  for  the  mirror  spoke  to  him  as  he  passed 
and  said:  "Corny,  lad,  there's  not  a  guy  among  'em 
that  looks  a  bit  the  sweller  than  yerself.  And  you 
drivin'  of  a  truck  and  them  swearin'  off  their  taxes 
and  playin'  the  red  in  art  galleries  with  the  best  in 
the  land!" 

And  the  mirrors  spake  the  truth.  Mr.  Corny 
Brannigan  had  acquired  the  outward  polish,  if  nothing 
more.  Long  and  keen  observation  of  polite  society 
had  gained  for  him  its  manner,  its  genteel  air,  and  — 
most  difficult  of  acquirement  —  its  repose  and  ease. 


^60  Sixes  and  Sevens 

Now  and  then  in  the  hotels  Corny  had  managed 
conversation  and  temporary  acquaintance  with  sub- 
stantial, if  not  distinguished,  guests.  With  many  of 
these  he  had  exchanged  cards,  and  the  ones  he  received 
he  carefully  treasured  for  his  own  use  later.  Leaving 
the  hotel  lobbies.  Corny  would  stroll  leisurely  about, 
lingering  at  the  theatre  entrance,  dropping  into  the 
fashionable  restaurants  as  if  seeking  some  friend.  He 
rarely  patronized  any  of  these  places;  he  was  no  bee 
come  to  suck  honey,  but  a  butterfly  flashing  his  wings 
among  the  flowers  whose  calyces  held  no  sweets  for 
him.  His  wages  were  not  large  enough  to  furnish  him 
with  more  than  the  outside  garb  of  the  gentleman. 
To  have  been  one  of  the  beings  he  so  cunningly 
imitated,  Corny  Brannigan  would  have  given  his  right 
hand. 

One  night  Corny  had  an  adventure.  After  absorb- 
ing the  delights  of  an  hour's  lounging  in  the  principal 
hotels  along  Broadway,  he  passed  up  into  the  strong- 
hold of  Thespis.  Cab  drivers  hailed  him  as  a  likely 
fare,  to  his  prideful  content.  Languishing  eyes  were 
turned  upon  him  as  a  hopeful  source  of  lobsters  and 
the  delectable,  ascendant  globules  of  effervescence. 
These  overtures  and  unconscious  compliments  Corny 
swallowed  as  manna,  and  hoped  Bill,  the  off  horse, 
would  be  less  lame  in  the  left  forefoot  in  the  morning. 

Beneath  a  cluster  of  milky  globes  of  electric  light 
Corny  paused  to  admire  the  sheen  of  his  low-cut 


Th€  Caliph  and  the  Cad  261 

patent  leather  shoes.  The  building  occupying  the 
angle  was  a  pretentious  cafe.  Out  of  this  came  a 
couple,  a  lady  in  a  white,  cobwebby  evening  gown,  with 
a  lace  wrap  like  a  wreath  of  mist  thrown  over  it,  and  a 
man,  tall,  faultless,  assured  —  too  assured.  They 
moved  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk  and  halted.  Corny's 
eye,  ever  alert  for  "pointers"  in  "swell"  behaviour, 
took  them  in  with  a  sidelong  glance. 

"The  carriage  is  not  here,"  said  the  lady.  "You 
ordered  it  to  wait.?" 

"I  ordered  it  for  nine-thirty,"  said  the  man.  "It 
should  be  here  now." 

A  familiar  note  in  the  lady's  voice  drew  a  more 
especial  attention  from  Corny.  It  was  pitched  in  a 
key  well  known  to  him.  The  soft  electric  shone  upon 
her  face.  Sisters  of  sorrow  have  no  quarters  fixed 
for  them.  In  the  index  to  the  book  of  breaking  hearts 
you  will  find  that  Broadway  follows  very  soon  after 
the  Bowery.  This  lady's  face  was  sad,  and  her  voice 
was  attuned  with  it  They  waited,  as  if  for  the  car- 
riage. Corny  waited  too,  for  it  was  out  of  doors,  and 
he  was  never  tired  of  accumulating  and  profiting  by 
knowledge  of  gentlemanly  conduct. 

"Jack,"  said  the  lady,  "don't  be  angry.  I've  done 
everything  I  could  to  please  you  this  evening.  Why 
do  you  act  so.f*" 

"Oh,  you're  an  angel,"  said  the  man.  "Depend 
upon  woman  to  throw  the  blame  upon  a  man." 


262  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"I'm  not  blaming  you.  I'm  only  trying  to  make 
you  happy." 

"You  go  about  it  in  a  very  peculiar  way." 

"  You  have  been  cross  with  me  all  the  evening  with- 
out any  cause." 

"Oh,  there  isn't  any  cause  except  —  you  make 
me  tired." 

Corny  took  out  his  card  case  and  looked  over  his 
collection.  He  selected  one  that  read:  "Mr.  R. 
Lionel  Whyte-Melville,  Bloomsbury  Square,  London." 
This  card  he  had  inveigled  from  a  tourist  at  the  King 
Edward  Hotel.  Corny  stepped  up  to  the  man  and 
presented  it  with  a  correctly  formal  air. 

"May  I  ask  why  I  am  selected  for  the  honour?" 
asked  the  lady's  escort. 

Now,  Mr.  Corny  Brannigan  had  a  very  wise  habit 
of  saying  little  during  his  imitations  of  the  Caliph  of 
Bagdad.  The  advice  of  Lord  Chesterfield:  "Wear 
a  black  coat  and  hold  your  tongue,"  he  believed  in 
without  having  heard.  But  now  speech  was  demanded 
and  required  of  him. 

"No  gent,"  said  Corny,  "would  talk  to  a  lady  like 
you  done.  Fie  upon  you,  Willie!  Even  if  she  hap- 
pens to  be  your  wife  you  ought  to  have  more  respect 
for  your  clothes  than  to  chin  her  back  that  way.  May- 
be it  ain't  my  butt-in,  but  it  goes,  anyhow  —  you 
strike  me  as  bein'  a  whole  lot  to  the  wrong." 

The  lady's  escort  indulged  in  more  elegantly  ex- 


The  Caliph  and  the  Cad  263 

pressed  but  fetching  repartee.  Corny,  eschewing  his 
truck  driver's  vocabulary,  retorted  as  nearly  as  he 
could  in  polite  phrases.  Then  diplomatic  relations 
were  severed;  there  was  a  brief  but  lively  set-to  with 
other  than  oral  weapons,  from  which  Corny  came 
forth  easily  victor. 

A  carriage  dashed  up,  driven  by  a  tardy  and  solic- 
itous coachman. 

"Will  you  kindly  open  the  door  for  me.''"  asked  the 
lady.  Corny  assisted  her  to  enter,  and  took  off  his 
hat.  The  escort  was  beginning  to  scramble  up  from 
the  sidewalk. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  said  Corny,  "if  he's 
your  man." 

"He's  no  man  of  mine,"  said  the  lady.  "Perhaps 
he  —  but  there's  no  chance  of  his  being  now.  Drive 
home,  Michael.  If  you  care  to  take  this  —  with 
my  thanks." 

Three  red  roses  were  thrust  out  through  the  carriage 
window  into  Corny's  hand.  He  took  them,  and  the 
hand  for  an  instant ;  and  then  the  carriage  sped  away. 

Corny  gathered  his  foe's  hat  and  began  to  brush  the 
dust  from  his  clothes. 

"Come  along,"  said  Corny,  taking  the  other  man 
by  the  arm. 

His  late  opponent  was  yet  a  little  dazed  by  the  hard 
knocks  he  had  received.  Corny  led  him  carefully  into 
a  saloon  three  doors  away. 


264  Sixes  and  Sevens 

"The  drinks  for  us,"  said  Corny  "me  and  my 
friend." 

"You're  a  queer  feller,"  said  the  lady's  late  escort — 
"lick  a  man  and  then  want  to  set  'em  up," 

"You're  my  best  friend,"  said  Corny  exultantly. 
"You  don't  understand?  Well,  listen.  You  just  put 
me  wise  to  somethin'.  I  been  playin'  gent  a  long  time, 
thinkin'  it  was  just  the  glad  rags  I  had  and  nothin' 
else.  Say  —  you're  a  swell,  ain't  you?  Well,  you 
trot  in  that  class,  I  guess.  I  don't;  but  I  found  out 
one  thing  —  I'm  a  gentleman,  by  —  and  I  know 
it  now.     What '11  you  have  to  drink?" 


XXIV 
THE  DIAMOND  OF  KALI 

1  HE  original  news  item  concerning  the  diamond  of 
the  goddess  Kali  was  handed  in  to  the  city  editor. 
He  smiled  and  held  it  for  a  moment  above  the  waste- 
basket.  Then  he  laid  it  back  on  his  desk  and  said: 
"Try  the  Sunday  people;  they  might  work  something 
out  of  it." 

The  Sunday  editor  glanced  the  item  over  and  said: 
"H'm!"  Afterward  he  sent  for  a  reporter  and  ex- 
panded his  comment. 

"You  might  see  General  Ludlow,"  he  said,  "and 
make  a  story  out  of  this  if  you  can.  Diamond  stories 
are  a  drug;  but  this  one  is  big  enough  to  be  found  by  a 
scrubwoman  wrapped  up  in  a  piece  of  newspaper  and 
tucked  under  the  corner  of  the  hall  linoleum.  Find 
out  first  if  the  General  has  a  daughter  who  intends  to  go 
on  the  stage.  If  not,  you  can  go  ahead  with  the  story. 
Run  cuts  of  the  Kohinoor  and  J.  P.  Morgan's  collec- 
tion, and  work  in  pictures  of  the  Kimberley  mines  and 
Barney  Barnato.  Fill  in  with  a  tabulated  comparison 
of  the  values  of  diamonds,  radium,  and  veal  cutlets 
since  the  meat  strike;  and  let  it  run  to  a  half  page." 

265 


266  Sixes  and  Sevens 

On  the  following  day  the  reporter  turned  in  his 
story.  The  Sunday  editor  let  his  eye  sprint  along  its 
lines.  "H'm!"  he  said  again.  This  time  the  copy 
went  into  the  waste-basket  with  scarcely  a  flutter. 

The  reporter  stiffened  a  little  around  the  lips;  but 
he  was  whistling  softly  and  contentedly  between  his 
teeth  when  I  went  over  to  talk  with  him  about  it  an 
hour  later. 

"I  don't  blame  the  'old  man',"  said  he,  magnani- 
mously, "for  cutting  it  out.  It  did  sound  like  funny 
business;  but  it  happened  exactly  as  I  wrote  it.  Say, 
why  don't  you  fish  that  story  out  of  the  w.-b.  and  use 
it?  Seems  to  me  it's  as  good  as  the  tommyrot  you 
write." 

I  accepted  the  tip,  and  if  you  read  further  you  will 
learn  the  facts  about  the  diamond  of  the  goddess 
Kali  as  vouched  for  by  one  of  the  most  reliable  re- 
porters on  the  staff. 

Gen.  Marcellus  B.  Ludlow  lives  in  one  of  those 
decaying  but  venerated  old  red-brick  mansions  in 
the  West  Twenties.  The  General  is  a  member  of  an 
old  New  York  family  that  does  not  advertise.  He  is 
a  globe-trotter  by  birth,  a  gentleman  by  predilection, 
a  millionaire  by  the  mercy  of  Heaven,  and  a  con- 
noisseur of  precious  stones  by  occupation. 

The  reporter  was  admitted  promptly  when  he  made 
himself  known  at  the  General's  residence  at  about 
eight  thirty  on  the  evening  that  he  received  the  assign- 


The  Diamond  of  Kali  267 

ment.  In  the  magnificent  library  he  was  greeted  by  the 
distinguished  traveller  and  connoisseur,  a  tall,  erect 
gentleman  in  the  early  fifties,  with  a  nearly  white 
moustache,  and  a  bearing  so  soldierly  that  one  per- 
ceived in  him  scarcely  a  trace  of  the  National  Guards- 
man. His  weather-beaten  countenance  lit  up  with  a 
charming  smile  of  interest  when  the  reporter  made 
known  his  errand. 

"Ah,  you  have  heard  of  my  latest  find.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  show  you  what  I  conceive  to  be  one  of  the 
six  most  valuable  blue  diamonds  in  existence." 

The  General  opened  a  small  safe  in  a  corner  of  the 
library  and  brought  forth  a  plush-covered  box. 
Opening  this,  he  exposed  to  the  reporter's  bewildered 
gaze  a  huge  and  brilliant  diamond  —  nearly  as  large 
as  a  hailstone. 

"This  stone,"  said  the  General,  "is  something 
more  than  a  mere  jewel.  It  once  formed  the  central 
eye  of  the  three-eyed  goddess  Kali,  who  is  worshipped 
by  one  of  the  fiercest  and  most  fanatical  tribes  of 
India.  If  you  will  arrange  yourself  comfortably  I 
will  give  you  a  brief  history  of  it  for  your  paper." 

General  Ludlow  brought  a  decanter  of  whiskey  and 
glasses  from  a  cabinet,  and  set  a  comfortable  armchair 
for  the  lucky  scribe. 

"The  Phansigars,  or  Thugs,  of  India,"  began  the 
General,  "are  the  most  dangerous  and  dreaded  of  the 
tribes    of    North    India.      They    are    extremists    in 


268  Sixes  and  Sevens 

religion,  and  worship  the  horrid  goddess  Kali  in  the 
form  of  images.  Their  rites  are  interesting  and 
bloody.  The  robbing  and  murdering  of  travellers  are 
taught  as  a  worthy  and  obligatory  deed  by  their 
strange  religious  code.  Their  worship  of  the  three- 
eyed  goddess  Kali  is  conducted  so  secretly  that  no 
traveller  has  ever  heretofore  had  the  honour  of  wit- 
nessing the  ceremonies.  That  distinction  was  re- 
served for  myself. 

"While  at  Sakaranpur,  between  Delhi  and  Khelat, 
I  used  to  explore  the  jungle  in  every  direction  in  the 
hope  of  learning  something  new  about  these  mys- 
terious Phansigars. 

"One  evening  at  twilight  I  was  making  my  way 
through  a  teakwood  forest,  when  I  came  upon  a  deep 
circular  depression  in  an  open  space,  in  the  centre  of 
which  was  a  rude  stone  temple.  I  was  sure  that  this 
was  one  of  the  temples  of  the  Thugs,  so  I  concealed 
myself  in  the  undergrowth  to  watch. 

"When  the  moon  rose  the  depression  in  the  clearing 
was  suddenly  filled  with  hundreds  of  shadowy,  swiftly 
gliding  forms.  Then  a  door  opened  in  the  temple, 
exposing  a  brightly  illuminated  image  of  the  goddesss 
Kali,  before  which  a  white-robed  priest  began  a  bar- 
barous incantation,  while  the  tribe  of  worshippers 
prostrated  themselves  upon  the  earth. 

"But  what  interested  me  most  was  the  central  eye 
of  the  huge  wooden  idol.     I  could  see  by  its  flashing 


The  Diamond  of  Kali  269 

brilliancy  that  it  was  an  immense  diamond  of  the 
purest  water, 

"After  the  rites  wer^  concluded  the  Thugs  slipped 
away  into  the  forest  as  silently  as  they  had  come. 
The  priest  stood  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  door  of  the 
temple  enjoying  the  cool  of  the  night  before  closing 
his  rather  warm  quarters.  Suddenly  a  dark,  lithe 
shadow  slipped  down  into  the  hollow,  leaped  upon  the 
priest,  and  struck  him  down  with  a  glittering  knife. 
Then  the  murderer  sprang  at  the  image  of  the  goddess 
like  a  cat  and  pried  out  the  glowing  central  eye  of 
Kali  with  his  weapon.  Straight  toward  me  he  ran 
with  his  royal  prize.  When  he  was  within  two  paces 
I  rose  to  my  feet  and  struck  him  with  all  my  force 
between  the  eyes.  He  rolled  over  senseless  and  the 
magnificent  jewel  fell  from  his  hand.  That  is  the 
splendid  blue  diamond  you  have  just  seen  —  a  stone 
worthy  of  a  monarch's  crown." 

"That's  a  corking  story,"  said  the  reporter.  "That 
decanter  is  exactly  like  the  one  that  John  W.  Gates 
always  sets  out  during  an  interview." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  General  Ludlow,  "for  forgetting 
hospitality  in  the  excitement  of  my  narrative. 
Help  yourself." 

"Here's  looking  at  you,"  said  the  reporter. 

"What  I  am  afraid  of  now,"  said  the  General,  lower- 
ing his  voice,  "is  that  I  may  be  robbed  of  the  diamond. 
The  jewel  that  formed  an  eye  of  their  goddess  is  their 


270  Sixes  and  Sevens 

most  sacred  symbol.  Somehow  the  tribe  suspected 
me  of  having  it;  and  members  of  the  band  have  followed 
me  half  around  the  earth.  Th^v  are  the  most  cunning 
and  cruel  fanatics  in  the  world,  and  their  religious  vows 
would  compel  them  to  assassinate  the  unbeliever  who 
has  desecrated  their  sacred  treasure. 

"Once  in  Lucknow  three  of  their  agents,  disguised 
as  servants  in  a  hotel,  endeavoured  to  strangle  me 
with  a  twisted  cloth.  Again,  in  London,  two  Thugs, 
made  up  as  street  musicians,  climbed  into  my  window 
at  night  and  attacked  me.  They  have  even  tracked 
me  to  this  country.  My  life  is  never  safe.  A  month 
ago,  while  I  was  at  a  hotel  in  the  Berkshires,  three  of 
them  sprang  upon  me  from  the  roadside  weeds.  I 
saved  myself  then  by  my  knowledge  of  their  customs." 

"How  was  that.  General .f'"  asked  the  reporter. 

"There  was  a  cow  grazing  near  by,"  said  General 
Ludlow,  "a  gentle  Jersey  cow.  I  ran  to  her  side  and 
stood.  The  three  Thugs  ceased  their  attack,  knelt 
and  struck  the  ground  thrice  with  their  fore- 
heads. Then,  after  many  respectful  salaams,  they 
departed." 

"Afraid  the  cow  would  hook?"  asked  the  reporter. 

"No;  the  cow  is  a  sacred  animal  to  the  Phansigars. 
Next  to  their  goddess  they  worship  the  cow.  They 
have  never  been  known  to  commit  any  deed  of  violence 
in  the  presence  of  the  animal  they  reverence." 

"It's  a  mighty  interesting  story,"  said  the  reporter. 


The  Diamond  of  Kali  271 

"If  you  don't  mind  I'll  take  another  drink,  and  then 
a  few  notes." 

"I  will  join  you,"  said  General  Ludlow,  with  a 
courteous  wave  of  his  liajio. 

"If  I  were  you,"  advised  the  reporter,  "I'd  take 
that  sparkler  to  Texas.  Get  on  a  cow  ranch  there, 
and  the  Pharisees " 

"Phansigars,"  corrected  the  General, 

"Oh,  yes;  the  fancy  guys  would  run  up  against  a 
long  horn  every  time  they  made  a  break." 

General  Ludlow  closed  the  diamond  case  and  thrust 
it  into  his  bosom. 

"The  spies  of  the  tribe  have  found  me  out  in  New 
York,"  he  said,  straightening  his  tall  figure.  "I'm 
familiar  with  the  East  Indian  cast  of  countenance, 
and  I  know  that  my  every  movement  is  watched. 
They  will  undoubtedly  attempt  to  rob  and  murder 
me  here." 

"Here.f*"  exclaimed  the  reporter,  seizing  the  de- 
canter and  pouring  out  a  liberal  amount  of  its  contents. 

"At  any  moment,"  said  the  General.  "But  as  a 
soldier  and  a  connoisseur  I  shall  sell  my  life  and  my 
diamond  as  dearly  as  I  can." 

At  this  point  of  the  reporter's  story  there  is  a  certain 
vagueness,  but  it  can  be  gathered  that  there  was  a 
loud  crashing  noise  at  the  rear  of  the  house  they  were 
in.  General  Ludlow  buttoned  his  coat  closely  and 
sprang  for  the  door.     But  the  reporter  clutched  him 


272  Sixes  and  Sevens 

firmly  with  one  hand,  while  he  held  the  decanter  with 
the  other. 

"Tell  me  before  we  fly,"  he  urged,  in  a  voice  thick 
with  some  inward  turmoil,  ".f^3  any  of  your  daughters 
contemplate  going  on  the  scp^e?" 

"I  have  no  daughters — ^^tly  for  your  life  —  the 
Phansigars  are  upon  us!"  cried  the  General, 

The  two  men  dashed  out  of  the  front  door  of  the 
house. 

The  hour  was  late.  As  their  feet  struck  the  side- 
walk strange  men  of  dark  and  forbidding  appearance 
seemed  to  rise  up  out  of  the  earth  and  encompass  them. 
One  with  Asiatic  features  pressed  close  to  the  General 
and  droned  in  a  terrible  voice: 

"Buy  cast  clo'!" 

Another,  dark-whiskered  and  sinister,  sped  lithely 
to  his  side  and  began  in  a  whining  voice : 

"Say,  mister,  have  yer  got  a  dime  fer  a  poor  feller 
what " 

They  hurried  on,  but  only  into  the  arms  of  a  black - 
eyed,  dusky-browed  being,  who  held  out  his  hat 
under  their  noses,  while  a  confederate  of  Oriental  hue 
turned  the  handle  of  a  street  organ  near  by. 

Twenty  steps  farther  on  General  Ludlow  and  the 
reporter  found  themselves  in  the  midst  of  half  a  dozen 
villainous-looking  men  with  high-turned  coat  collars 
and  faces  bristling  with  unshaven  beards. 

"Run  for  it!"    hissed   the  General.     "They   have 


The  Diamond  of  Kali  273 

discovered  the  possessor  of  the  diamond  of  the  god- 
dess Kali." 

The  two  men  took  to  their  heels.  The  avengers  of 
the  goddess  pursued. 

"Oh,  Lordy!"  groaned  the  reporter,  "there  isn't 
a  cow  this  side  of  Brooklyn.     We're  lost!" 

When  near  the  corner  they  both  fell  over  an  iron 
object  that  rose  from  the  sidewalk  close  to  the  gutter. 
Clinging  to  it  desperately,  they  awaited  their  fate. 

"If  I  only  had  a  cow!"  moaned  the  reporter  —  "or 
another  nip  from  that  decanter.  General!" 

As  soon  as  the  pursuers  observed  where  their  victims 
had  found  refuge  they  suddenly  fell  back  and  retreated 
to  a  considerable  distance. 

"They  are  waiting  for  reinforcements  in  order  to 
attack  us,"  said  General  Ludlow. 

But  the  reporter  emitted  a  ringing  laugh,  and  hurled 
his  hat  triumphantly  into  the  air. 

"Guess  again,"  he  shouted,  and  leaned  heavily  upon 
the  iron  object.  "Your  old  fancy  guys  or  thugs, 
whatever  you  call  'em,  are  up  to  date.  Dear  General, 
this  is  a  pump  we've  stranded  upon  —  same  as  a  cow 
in  New  York  (hie!)  see?  Thas'h  why  the  'nfuriated 
smoked  guys  don't  attack  us  —  see?  Sacred  an'mal, 
the  pump  in  N'  York,  my  dear  General!" 

But  further  down  in  the  shadows  of  Twenty-eighth 
Street  the  marauders  were  holding  a  parley. 

"Come  on,  Reddy,"  said  one.     "Let's  go  frisk  the 


274  Sixes  and  Sevens 

old  'un.  He's  been  showin'  a  sparkler  as  big  as  a  hen 
egg  all  around  Eighth  Avenue  for  two  weeks  past." 

"Not  on  your  silhouette,"  decided  Reddy.  "You 
see  'em  rallyin'  round  The  Pump?  They're  friends 
of  Bill's.  BilUwon't  stand  for  nothin'  of  this  kind  in 
his  district  since  he  got  that  bid  to  Esopus." 

This  exhausts  the  facts  concerning  the  Kali  diamond. 
But  it  is  deemed  not  inconsequent  to  close  with  the 
following  brief  (paid)  item  that  appeared  two  days 
later  in  a  morning  paper. 

"It  is  rumored  that  a  niece  of  Gen.  Marcellus  B. 
Ludlow,  of  New  York  City,  will  appear  on  the  stage 
next  season. 

"Her  diamonds  are  said  to  be  extremely  valuable 
and  of  much  historic  interest." 


XXV 

THE  DAY  WE  CELEBRATE 

In  THE  tropics"  ("Hop-along"  Bibb,  the  bird 
fancier,  was  saying  to  me)  "the  seasons,  months,  fort- 
nights, week-ends,  hoHdays,  dog-days,  Sundays,  and 
yesterdays  get  so  jumbled  together  in  the  shuffle  that 
you  never  know  when  a  year  has  gone  by  until  you're 
in  the  middle  of  the  next  one." 

"Hop-along"  Bibb  kept  his  bird  store  on  lower 
Fourth  Avenue.  He  was  an  ex-seaman  and  beach- 
comber who  made  regular  voyages  to  southern  ports 
and  imported  personally  conducted  invoices  of  talk- 
ing parrots  and  dialectic  paroquets.  He  had  a  stiff 
knee,  neck,  and  nerve.  I  had  gone  to  him  to  buy 
a  parrot  to  present,  at  Christmas,  to  my  Aimt 
Joanna. 

"This  one,"  said  I,  disregarding  his  homily  on  the 
subdivisions  of  time  —  "this  one  that  seems  all  red, 
white,  and  blue  —  to  what  genus  of  beasts  does  he 
belong?  He  appeals  at  once  to  my  patriotism  and 
to  my  love  of  discord  in  colour  schemes." 

"That's  a  cockatoo  from  Ecuador,"  said  Bibb.  "All 
he  has  been  taught  to  say  is  "Merry  Christmas."     A 

275 


^76  Sixes  and  Sevens 

seasonable  bird.  He's  only  seven  dollars;  and  I'll 
bet  many  a  human  has  stuck  you  for  more  money  by 
making  the  same  speech  to  you." 

And  then  Bibb  laughed  suddenly  and  loudly. 

"That  bird,"  he  explained,  "reminds  me.  He's 
got  his  dates  mixed.  He  ought  to  be  saying  'E 
pluribus  unum,'  to  match  his  feathers,  instead  of  trying 
to  work  the  Santa  Claus  graft .  It  reminds  me  of  the 
time  me  and  Liverpool  Sam  got  our  ideas  of  things 
tangled  up  on  the  coast  of  Costa  Rica  on  account  of 
the  weather  and  other  phenomena  to  be  met  with 
in  the  tropics. 

"We  were,  as  it  were,  stranded  on  that  section  of 
the  Spanish  main  with  no  money  to  speak  of  and  no 
friends  that  should  be  talked  about  either.  We  had 
stoked  and  second-cooked  ourselves  down  there  on  a 
fruit  steamer  from  New  Orleans  to  try  our  luck, 
which  was  discharged,  after  we  got  there,  for  lack  of 
evidence.  There  was  no  work  suitable  to  our  instincts; 
so  me  and  Liverpool  began  to  subsist  on  the  red  rum 
of  the  country  and  such  fruit  as  we  could  reap  where 
we  had  not  sown.  It  was  an  alluvial  town,  called 
Soledad,  where  there  was  no  harbour  or  future  or 
recourse.  Between  steamers  the  town  slept  and  drank 
rum.  It  only  woke  up  when  there  were  bananas 
to  ship.  It  was  like  a  man  sleeping  through  dinner 
until  the  dessert. 

"When  me  and  Liverpool  got  so  low  down  that  the 


The  Day  We  Celebrate  277 

American  consul  wouldn't  speak  to  us  we  knew  we'd 
struck  bed  rock. 

"  We  boarded  with  a  snuff-brown  lady  named  Chica, 
who  kept  a  rum-shop  and  a  ladies'  and  gents'  restaur- 
ant in  a  street  called  the  calle  de  los  Forty-seven  In- 
consolable Saints.  When  our  credit  played  out  there, 
Liverpool,  whose  stomach  overshadowed  his  sensations 
of  noblesse  oblige,  married  Chica.  This  kept  us  in  rice 
and  fried  plantain  for  a  month;  and  then  Chica 
pounded  Liverpool  one  morning  sadly  and  earnestly 
for  fifteen  minutes  with  a  casserole  handed  down 
from  the  stone  age,  and  we  knew  that  we  had  out- 
welcomed  our  liver.  That  night  we  signed  an  engage- 
ment with  Don  Jaime  McSpinosa,  a  hybrid  banana 
fancier  of  the  place,  to  work  on  his  fruit  preserves 
nine  miles  out  of  town.  We  had  to  do  it  or  be 
reduced  to  sea  water  and  broken  doses  of  feed  and 
slumber. 

"Now,  speaking  of  Liverpool  Sam,  I  don't  malign 
or  inexculpate  him  to  you  any  more  than  I  would  to 
his  face.  But  in  my  opinion,  when  an  Englishman 
gets  as  low  as  he  can  he's  got  to  dodge  so  that  the  dregs 
of  other  nations  don't  drop  ballast  on  him  out  of  their 
balloons.  And  if  he's  a  Liverpool  Englishman,  why, 
fire-damp  is  what  he's  got  to  look  out  for.  Being  a 
natural  American,  that's  my  personal  view.  But 
Liverpool  and  me  had  much  in  common.  We  were 
without   decorous    clothes    or    ways   and     means    of 


278  Sixes  and  Sevens 

existence;  and,  as  the  saying  goes,  misery  certainly 
does  enjoy  the  society  of  accomplices. 

"Our  job  on  old  McSpinosa's  plantation  was  chop- 
ping down  banana  stalks  and  loading  the  bunches  of 
fruit  on  the  backs  of  horses.  Then  a  native  dressed 
up  in  an  alligator  hide  belt,  a  machete,  and  a  pair  of 
AA  sheeting  pajamas,  drives  'em  over  to  the  coast  and 
piles  'em  up  on  the  beach. 

"You  ever  been  in  a  banana  grove?  It's  as  solemn 
as  a  rathskeller  at  seven  a.  m.  It's  like  being  lost  be- 
hind the  scenes  at  one  of  these  mushroom  musical 
shows.  You  can't  see  the  sky  for  the  foliage  above 
you;  and  the  ground  is  knee  deep  in  rotten  leaves; 
and  it's  so  still  that  you  can  hear  the  stalks  growing 
again  after  you  chop  'em  down. 

"At  night  me  and  Liverpool  herded  in  a  lot  of  grass 
huts  on  the  edge  of  a  lagoon  with  the  red,  yellow,  and 
black  employes  of  Don  Jaime.  There  we  lay  fighting 
mosquitoes  and  listening  to  the  monkeys  squalling 
and  the  alligators  grunting  and  splashing  in  the  lagoon 
until  daylight  with  only  snatches  of  sleep  between 
times. 

"We  soon  lost  all  idea  of  what  time  of  the  year  it 
was.  It's  just  about  eighty  degrees  there  in  December 
and  June  and  on  Fridays  and  at  midnight  and  election 
day  and  any  other  old  time.  Sometimes  it  rains  more 
than  at  others,  and  that's  all  the  difference  you  notice. 
A  man  is  liable  to  live  along  there  without  noticing 


The  Day  We  Celebrate  279 

any  fugiting  of  tempus  until  some  day  the  undertaker 
calls  in  for  him  just  when  he's  beginning  to  think  about 
cutting  out  the  gang  and  saving  up  a  little  to  invest 
in  real  estate. 

"I  don't  know  how  long  we  worked  for  Don  Jaime; 
butjit[was  through  two  or  three  rainy  spells,  eight  or  ten 
hair  cuts,  and  the  life  of  three  pairs  of  sail-cloth  trousers. 
All  the  money  we  earned  went  for  rum  and  tobacco; 
but  we  ate,  and  that  was  something. 

"All  of  a  sudden  one  day  me  and  Liverpool  find  the 
trade  of  committing  surgical  operations  on  banana 
stalks  turning  to  aloes  and  quinine  in  our  mouths. 
It's  a  seizure  that  often  comes  upon  white  men  in 
Latin  and  geographical  countries.  We  wanted  to  be 
addressed  again  in  language  and  see  the  smoke  of  a 
steamer  and  read  the  real  estate  transfers  and  gents' 
outfitting  ads  in  an  old  newspaper.  Even  Soledad 
seemed  like  a  centre  of  civilization  to  us,  so  that 
evening  we  put  our  thumbs  on  our  nose  at  Don 
Jaime's  fruit  stand  and  shook  his  grass  burrs  off  our 
feet. 

"It  was  only  twelve  miles  to  Soledad,  but  it  took 
me  and  Liverpool  two  days  to  get  there.  It  was 
banana  grove  nearly  all  the  way;  and  we  got  twisted 
time  and  again.  It  was  like  paging  the  palm  room  of 
a  New  York  hotel  for  a  man  named  Smith. 

"When  we  saw  the  houses  of  Soledad  between  the 
trees  all  my  disinclination  toward  this  Liverpool  Sam 


280  Sixes  and  Sevens 

rose  up  in  me.  I  stood  him  while  we  were  two  white 
men  against  the  banana  brindles;  but  now,  when  there 
were  prospects  of  my  exchanging  even  cuss  words  with 
an  American  citizen,  I  put  him  back  in  his  proper 
place.  And  he  was  a  sight,  too,  with  his  rum-painted 
nose  and  his  red  whiskers  and  elephant  feet  with  leather 
sandals  strapped  to  them.  I  suppose  I  looked  about 
the  same. 

"'It  looks  to  me,'  says  I,  'like  Great  Britain  ought 
to  be  made  to  keep  such  gin-swilling,  scurvy,  unbecom- 
ing mud  larks  as  you  at  home  instead  of  sending  'em 
over  here  to  degrade  and  taint  foreign  lands.  We 
kicked  you  out  of  America  once  and  we  ought  to  put 
on  rubber  boots  and  do  it  again.' 

"'Oh,  you  go  to  'ell,'  says  Liverpool,  which  was 
about  all  the  repartee  he  ever  had. 

"Well,  Soledad,  looked  fine  to  me  after  Don  Jaime's 
plantation.  Liverpool  and  me  walked  into  it  side  by 
side,  from  force  of  habit,  past  the  calabosa  and  the 
Hotel  Grande,  down  across  the  plaza  toward  Chica's 
hut,  where  we  hoped  that  Liverpool,  being  a  husband 
of  hers,  might  work  his  luck  for  a  meal. 

"As  we  passed  the  two-story  little  frame  house 
occupied  by  the  American  Club,  we  noticed  that  the 
balcony  had  been  decorated  all  around  with  wreaths 
of  evergreens  and  flowers,  and  the  flag  was  flying  from 
the  pole  on  the  roof.  Stanzey,  the  consul,  and  Ark- 
right,  a  gold-mine  owner,  were  smoking  on  the  balcony. 


The  Day  We  Celebrate  281 

Me  and  Liverpool  waved  our  dirty  hands  toward 
'em  and  smiled  real  society  smiles;  but  they  turned 
their  backs  to  us  and  went  on  talking.  And  we  had 
played  whist  once  with  the  two  of  'em  up  to  the  time 
when  Liverpool  held  all  thirteen  trumps  for  four 
hands  in  succession.  It  was  some  holiday,  we  knew; 
but  we  didn't  know  the  day  nor  the  year. 

"A  little  further  along  we  saw  a  reverend  man  named 
Pendergast,  who  had  come  to  Soledad  to  build  a  church, 
standing  under  a  cocoanut  palm  with  his  little  black 
alpaca  coat  and  green  umbrella. 

"'Boys,  boys!'  says  he,  through  his  blue  spectacles, 
'is  it  as  bad  as  this?     Are  you  so  far  reduced?' 

"'We're  reduced,'  says  I,  'to  very  vulgar  fractions.' 

"'It  is  indeed  sad,'  says  Pendergast,  'to  see  my 
countrymen  in  such  circumstances.' 

'"Cut  'arf  of  that  out,  old  party,'  says  Liverpool. 
'  Cawn't  you  tell  a  member  of  the  British  upper  classes 
when  you  see  one?' 

"'Shut  up,'  I  told  Liverpool.  'You're  on  foreign 
soil  now,  or  that  portion  of  it  that's  not  on  you.' 

'"And  on  this  day,  too  !'  goes  on  Pendergast, 
grievous  —  'on  this  most  glorious  day  of  the  year  when 
we  should  all  be  celebrating  the  dawn  of  Christian 
civilization  and  the  downfall  of  the  wicked.' 

"'I  did  notice  bunting  and  bouquets  decorating 
the  town,  reverend,'  says  I,  'but  I  didn't  know  what 
it  was  for.     We've  been  so  long  out  of  touch  with 


282  Sixes  and  Sevens 

calendars  that  we  didn't  know  whether  it  was  summer 
time  or  Saturday  afternoon. 

"'Here  is  two  dollars,'  says  Pendergast  digging  up 
two  Chili  silver  wheels  and  handing  'em  to  me.  'Go, 
my  men,  and  observe  the  rest  of  the  day  in  a  befitting 
manner.' 

"Me  and  Liverpool  thanked  him  kindly,  and  walked 
away. 

"'Shall  we  eat?' I  asks. 

"'Oh,  'ell!'  says  Liverpool.     'What's  money  for?' 

"'Very  well,  then,'  I  says,  'since  you  insist  upon  it, 
we'll  druik.' 

"So  we  pull  up  in  a  rum  shop  and  get  a  quart  of  it 
and  go  down  on  the  beach  under  a  cocoanut  tree  and 
celebrate. 

"Not  having  eaten  anything  but  oranges  in  two 
days,  the  rum  has  immediate  effect;  and  once  more  I 
conjure  up  great  repugnance  toward  the  British 
nation. 

"'Stand  up  here,'  I  says  to  Liverpool,  'you  scum 
of  a  despot  limited  monarchy,  and  have  another  dose 
of  Bunker  Hill.  That  good  man,  Mr.  Pendergast,' 
says  I,  'said  we  were  to  observe  the  day  in  a  befitting 
manner,  and  I'm  not  going  to  see  his  money  mis- 
applied.' 

"'Oh,  you  go  to  'ell!'  says  Liverpool,  and  I  started 
in  with  a  fine  left-hander  on  his  right  eye. 

"Liverpool  had  been  a  fighter  once,  but  dissipation 


The  Day  We  Celebrate  283 

and  bad  company  had  taken  the  nerve  out  of  him. 
In  ten  minutes  I  had  him  lying  on  the  sand  waving 
the  white  flag. 

** 'Get  up,'  says  I,  kicking  him  in  the  ribs,  'and  come 
along  with  me.' 

"Liverpool  got  up  and  followed  behind  me  because 
it  was  his  habit,  wiping  the  red  off  his  face  and  nose. 
I  led  him  to  Reverend  Pendergast's  shack  and  called 
him  out. 

"'Look  at  this,  sir,'  says  I  —  'look  at  this  thing 
that  was  once  a  proud  Britisher.  You  gave  us  two 
dollars  and  told  us  to  celebrate  the  day.  The  star- 
spangled  banner  still  waves.  Hurrah  for  the  stars 
and  eagles!' 

"'Dear  me,'  says  Pendergast,  holding  up  his  hands. 
'Fighting  on  this  day  of  all  days!  On  Christmas 
day,  when  peace  on ' 

'"Christmas,  hell!'  says  I.  'I  thought  it  was  the 
Fourth  of  July.'" 

"Merry  Christmas!"  said  the  red,  white,  and  blue 
cockatoo. 

"Take  him  for  six  dollars,"  said  Hop-along  Bibb. 
"He's  got  his  dates  and  colours  mixed." 


THE  COTJNTBY  LIFE  FBBSS,  GABDEN  CITY,  N.  T. 


//gf-^t,      ^' 


i\  vci^a 


l<i'b  -■ -^ 


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